THE  STOLEN  STORY 


The  STOLEN 
STORY  and  other 
Newspaper  Stories 


Jesse    Lynch    Williams 

Author   of  "Princeton    Stories" 


New  York 

Charles    Scribner's    Sons 
1899 


Copyright,   1899,  by 
Charlet  Scribner's  Sont 


TROW  OIKfCTOHY 
AID  tOOKBINDIKa 

mw  romt 


TO 

A.    L.   W 


IK-' 
4 


CONTENTS 

Page 

The  Stolen  Story I 

The  New  Reporter     .     .     .     .     .     .     61 

Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes  .  ,  103 
The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview  125 
The  City  Editor's  Conscience  .  .  .161 

The   Cub   Reporter  and  the   King  of 
Spain 183 

The  Old  Reporter 215 


The  Stolen  Story 


The  Stolen  Story 


'"THEY  had  warned  Billy  Woods  so  often 
before  and  had  not  yet  asked  him  to 
resign  that  the  rest  of  the  staff  believed 
they  never  would.  This  was  reasonable, 
because  there  was  only  one  Billy  Woods, 
and  the  newspapers  that  wanted  geniuses 
were  many. 

Woods  wore  glasses  that  slid  down  his 
nose,  and  he  was  a  born  reporter.  He  had 
an  absent-minded  manner  that  went  well 
with  the  glasses,  but  his  nose  for  news  was 
the  best  on  Park  Row. 

The  first  impression  he  gave  was  of  un- 
practical guilelessness,  but  he  could  ask  a 
greater  number  of  intelligent  questions 
about  a  greater  variety  of  interests  than 
3 


The  Stolen  Story 

three  average  reporters,  and  they  are  all 
pretty  good  at  it.  He  had  the  power  of 
making  anybody  talk.  The  busiest  bank 
presidents  and  the  crustiest  lawyers  opened 
their  mouths  for  him  quite  as  readily  as 
East  Side  saloon-keepers.  If  there  was 
news  to  be  had  Woods  could  dig  it  out ;  and 
after  he  got  it  he  knew  how  to  handle  it. 
These  two  qualities  don't  always  go  to- 
gether. 

Woods  had  been  taken  on  the  staff  of  The 
Day  as  a  cub  reporter,  younger,  and  even 
more  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the  word 
"  news  "  than  most  cub  reporters.  Since 
then  he  had  learned  a  good  deal,  but  had 
never  seen  fit  to  leave  off  reporting  for  a 
place  at  the  copy-reading  desk,  or  even  to 
become  assistant  city  editor,  because  report- 
ing was  not  only  more  pleasurable  but  de- 
cidedly more  profitable.  He  led  as  un- 
monotonous  a  life  as  anyone  in  town,  and 
his  space  bills  averaged  nearly  three  times 
as  much  as  an  ordinary  copy-reader's  salary 
and  fully  twice  that  of  the  assistant  city  ed- 
itor— not  to  speak  of  his  fame  as  the  star 
reporter  of  The  Day. 
4 


The  Stolen  Story 

Many  other  newspapers  wanted  him  to 
be  their  star  man.  There  was  a  very  large 
standing  offer  from  one  of  these,  The  Earth, 
but  he  always  refused  because  it  would  be 
such  a  bother  to  overhaul  and  clear  out  the 
drawers  of  his  desk,  and  also  because  The 
Day  was  the  best  newspaper  in  the  country 
to  stick  to.  There  was  a  saying  along  the 
Row,  borne  out  by  fact,  that  a  Day  man  was 
fixed  for  life  if  he  minded  his  business  and 
kept  sober  till  the  paper  went  to  press.  But 
this  latter  was  very  difficult  for  Billy  Woods, 
and  that  was  the  reason  dust  was  on  his  desk 
and  the  men  were  talking  about  him  this 
morning.  This  morning  meant  12.30  P.M., 
and  the  reporters  were  arriving  for  the  day's 
work.  Some  of  them  were  just  out  of  bed 
and  were  waiting  to  be  sent  off  on  their  first 
assignments  before  getting  breakfast. 

"  There'll  be  the  devil  to  pay  when  he 
comes  back  this  time,"  said  the  man  with 
the  high  collar. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  one  on  the 

desk,  swinging  his  legs.     "  This  is  only  the 

fourth  day.  That  time  last  year  he  was  gone 

a  week,  and  they  told  him  they  would  have 

5 


The  Stolen  Story 

to  fire  him,  and  Billy  bobbed  his  head  and 
looked  pathetic,  and  agreed  with  all  they 
said  about  him;  and,  as  usual,  they  told 

him " 

"  Yes,  but  don't  you  see,"  the  high  col- 
lar went  on,  knowingly,  "  Billy  never  let  the 
paper  get  beaten  before.  I  don't  under- 
stand it;  no  matter  how  absent-minded  he 
was  he  never  fell  down  on  his  story.  At 
first  they  thought  he  had  merely  forgotten 
that  we  go  to  press  early  on  Saturday  nights 
— he  has  to  be  reminded  every  time,  you 
know — but  when  it  got  later  and  later,  ev- 
erybody began  to  guess  what  was  the  mat- 
ter, though  nobody  wanted  to  say  so.  You 
ought  to  have  heard  them  swear — I  was  do- 
ing the  long  wait  that  night — when  they 
finally  locked  up  and  went  to  press  with 
only  the  '  flimsy  '  story  that  had  it  five  killed 
instead  of  nine."  In  newspaper  offices 
flimsy  means  News  Bureau  reports.  "  Of 
course,"  the  reporter  added,  "  they  correct- 
ed that  in  the  later  editions  with  a  lift  from 
The  Press,  but  you  know  what  a  botch  of  a 
story  it  was.  They  sent  me  out  for  the 
steamboat  company's  end  of  it,  but  every- 
6 


The  Stolen  Story 

body  had  gone  to  bed  and  didn't  know  any 
boiler  had  exploded  till  I  woke  'em  up  and 
told  them." 

The  leg-swinger  remarked :  "  He  was  all 
right  all  the  afternoon  and  evening.  In 
fact,  he'd  been  trying  so  hard  to  be  good  for 
several  months,  poor  old  Billy — but  then 
you  know  his  way.  Probably  began  by  de- 
ciding it  was  cold  going  down  the  bay  on 
the  tug." 

"  You're  mistaken,"  said  somebody  in  a 
confident  tone  from  a  near-by  desk.  This 
was  Sampson,  one  of  the  older  men,  who 
was  clipping  his  space  from  the  morning 
paper,  and  had  not  been  in  the  conversation 
before.  "  Billy  Woods  did  not  start  in  on 
the  way  down.  He  never  drinks  when  out 
on  an  assignment.  You  know  that. 
What's  more,  I've  good  reason  for  believ- 
ing that  a  certain  cur  from  a  certain  paper 
got  him  drunk  on  the  way  home  after  Billy 
had  written  his  story  in  the  cabin — deliber- 
ately. Let  me  tell  you  what  The  Herald 
man  on  that  tug  said  to  me  last  night."  But 
he  did  not  tell,  for  just  then  the  city  editor 
called  out  "  Sampson,"  and  this  reporter 
7 


The  Stolen  Story 

tossed  down  his  scissors  and  went  up  to  the 
desk  to  take  an  assignment. 

"  Good-morning.  Who's  that  you're 
talking  about  ?  "  Another  reporter  had 
joined  the  group,  taking  off  his  coat. 

"  Billy  Woods." 

"  Why,  I  saw  him  a  minute  ago  in  the 
drug  store  drinking  bromo-seltzer.  Here 
he  is  now." 

Woods  was  bending  over  the  latch  of  the 
little  gate  that  kept  those  who  had  no  right 
to  go  inside  from  those  who  had. 

The  gate  shut  with  a  click  behind  him, 
and,  looking  scholarly  and  dignified,  he 
marched  straight  up  the  room  for  the 
city  editor's  desk,  rapping  the  floor  with 
his  cane  at  every  two  steps.  His  glasses 
were  tipped  forward  at  an  angle  so  that  he 
had  to  elevate  his  chin  to  focus  through 
them,  and  he  did  not  even  see  his  friends  as 
he  strode  up  between  the  rows  of  desks, 
hurrying  with  his  whole  body. 

"  R-E-morse,"  said  Jones,  with  the  high 
collar. 

Sampson  was  still  standing  beside  the 
city  editor,  listening  to  instructions  as  to  the 


The  Stolen  Story 

style  of  story  wanted  about  the  sanitary  con- 
dition of  Ludlow  Street  Jail;  so  Woods  had 
to  wait.  The  men  down  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room  observed  him  frowning  as  though 
just  in  with  an  important  piece  of  news  in- 
stead of  the  remnants  of  a  four  days'  spree. 
Jones  and  one  of  the  others,  pretending  to 
look  for  mucilage,  sauntered  up  the  room 
to  hear  what  would  take  place. 

As  soon  as  Sampson  started  off,  without 
waiting  for  Mr.  White,  the  city  editor,  to 
turn  to  him,  Billy  Woods  said,  "  Well,  there 
were  nine  persons  killed  there  down  the  bay, 
sir." 

News  that  is  four  days  old  is  rather  an- 
cient history  for  a  city  editor  to  recall  im- 
mediately and,  at  first,  Mr.  White  looked 
puzzled.  Then  he  stopped  a  smile  and 
said,  "  Mr.  Woods,  Mr.  Manning  wants  to 
see  you,  I  believe,"  and  bent  over  his  clip- 
pings again.  He  did  not  usually  call  Billy 
"  Mr.  Woods." 

Woods  knew  what  that  meant,  but  he 
only  said,  "  Yes,  sir,"  and,  holding  his  body 
very  erect,  walked  over  to  the  managing  ed- 
itor's desk.    It  was  in  the  same  room. 
9 


The  Stolen  Story 

Mr.  Manning  spoke  a  few  brief  sentences 
which  the  other  reporters  could  not  distin- 
guish, though  they  could  hear  Billy  saying, 
"  Yes,  sir,"  every  now  and  then ;  "  That's 
so,"  "  Yes,  I  agree  with  you,"  while  his  head 
nodded  attentively,  and  then,  "  Good-by, 
sir;"  and  in  a  little  over  a  minute  Billy 
Woods  marched  down  the  room  and  out  of 
the  gate,  no  longer  a  member  of  The  Day's 
staff.  Newspaper  editors  have  no  superflu- 
ous time  to  spend,  even  upon  geniuses. 


II 

Woods  was  now  completely  sober  for  the 
first  time  in  four  days. 

He  could  turn  either  up  or  down  the  Row, 
he  knew,  and  get  a  position  in  the  first  news- 
paper office  he  came  to.  But  to  be  "  dis- 
charged for  intoxication  "  meant  more  to 
Woods  than  even  his  intimate  friends  im- 
agined. It  had  made  him  a  great  deal 
soberer  than  he  cared  to  be,  and  before  he 
reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  what  to  do  about  it.  It  was  not 
10 


The  Stolen  Story 

to  a  newspaper  office  that  he  turned.  He 
still  had  some  money  left.  But,  as  it 
chanced,  he  did  not  carry  out  his  intention. 

Things  move  so  quickly  in  Newspaper 
Row.  The  news  of  Wood's  dismissal  had 
permeated  the  entire  room  before  he  was 
quite  out  of  it.  Before  he  was  down  the 
stairs  a  certain  mature-faced  office-boy  had 
stolen  unobserved  to  the  telephone  closet, 
carefully  closed  the  door  and  called  up  the 
city  editor  of  The  Earth. 

"  Is  that  you,  Mr.  McCarthy  ?  "  said  the 
boy  in  The  Day  office,  glancing  behind  him 
to  see  that  no  one  was  watching  him 
through  the  sound-proof  glass  door — "  Hel- 
lo, Mr.  McCarthy,  you  know  who  this  is — 
yes.  Well,  B.  W.  turned  up,  and  dey  give 
him  de  grand  t'row  down — what? — Yes, 
just  now,  just  dis  minute — what?  I  don't 
know  where  he  went. — Naw,  I  couldn't 
sneak  downstairs  after  him.  I'm  scared 
to  death  now — I  say  I'm  scared  to  death 
now  dat  dey's  getting  onto  me  here.  No, 
he  was  sober — Yes,  if  you  hurry.  All  right, 
yes,  sir.  Good-by." 

Then  the  office-boy  rang  off,  and  walked 
ii 


The  Stolen  Story 

out  and  began  throwing  spit-balls,  made  of 
copy  paper,  at  the  other  office-boys,  while 
in  the  city  room  of  The  Earth  Mr.  McCarthy 
was  speaking  rapidly  to  two  men  hastily 
summoned  to  his  desk : 

"  You'll  find  him  some  place  along  the 
Row.  Maybe  he  hasn't  any  money ;  in  that 
case  he  won't  get  drunk,  but  I  think  he'll 
wander  'round  awhile  before  he  looks  for  a 
job.  Let's  see — if  he's  plenty  of  money 
he'll  probably  go  to  the  cafe,  you  know ;  but 
more  likely  you'll  find  him  at  Andy's.  Mun- 
son,  you  go  to  Andy's.  Murphy,  you  go  to 
the  other  place.  Jolly  him  up  if  he  doesn't 
want  to  join  us — promise  him  any  amount 
of  money  (I  hope  he's  hard  up);  he  can't 
hold  you  to  it,  you  know — anything  to  get 
him  here  before  he's  gobbled  up  by  some- 
body else.  Now,  then,  hurry  on.  Wait  a 
minute.  See  here,  don't  make  him  drunk 
unless  necessary.  I've  got  a  big  story  wait- 
ing for  him." 

It  was  just  four  minutes  later  that  Mun- 
son  was  saying,  effusively,  "Why,  hello, 
Billy,  glad  to  see  you,  old  man ;  didn't  ex- 
pect to  see  you  in  here  this  time  of  day. 

12 


The  Stolen  Story 

Great  old  time  coming  up  on  the  tug  last 
Saturday  night — hey?  Say,  what're  you 
doing,  eating  breakfast  here  all  alone?  " 

It  was  very  lonely.  Everyone  else  in 
town  was  busy  and  Woods  had  had  but  one 
drink. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time 
Woods  was  dismissed  from  The  Day's  staff 
he  was  a  member  of  The  Earth's,  and  it  took 
but  one  more  round  of  drinks,  for  which 
Woods  himself  paid,  though  Munson  put 
down  in  his  next  week's  expense  account : 
"  To  getting  Woods  in  condition  to  join 
staff,  $175,"  which  was  O.  K.'d  without 
question. 

This  newspaper  hated  The  Day  with  loud, 
outspoken  hatred,  as  bad  boys  hate.  But 
it  loved  The  Day's  men.  That  may  have 
been  one  of  the  reasons. 

When  it  could  The  Earth  lured  away 
The  Day's  crack  men  with  golden  promises, 
gave  them  unlimited  space  and  Earthly  as- 
signments, thereby  demoralizing  their  Eng- 
lish and  their  self-respect  until  they  became 
ordinary  reporters,  and  then  they  were  used 
like  ordinary  reporters. 
13 


The  Stolen  Story 

It  was  not  a  nice  newspaper,  but  it  was 
an  exceedingly  enterprising  one.  Perhaps 
it  did  not  always  overhaul  every  item  of 
news  as  carefully  as  The  Day,  but  it  had 
more  occasions  for  congratulating  itself  on 
"  exclusive  news,"  as  they  call  beats  in  the 
editorial  column. 

It  so  happened  that  a  valuable  tip  had  just 
come  into  the  office  which,  if  worked  in  the 
right  way,  would  result  in  an  "  article  "  on 
the  first  page  calculated  to  make  the  public 
set  down  its  coffee-cup  and  pick  up  the  pa- 
per with  both  hands.  And,  what  would  be 
a  source  of  greater  delight  to  McCarthy  and 
his  crew,  it  would  make  all  the  rest  of  News- 
paper Row  writhe  in  impotent  fury  at  being 
so  badly  beaten. 

It  was  such  a  precious  gem  of  a  tip  that 
the  city  editor  fairly  trembled  as  he  whis- 
pered about  it.  There  was  reason  for  his 
being  excited.  The  newly  appointed  mu- 
nicipal official  that  gave  out  the  tip — in  the 
form  of  a  twenty-word  statement — to  an 
Earth  reporter,  did  so,  only  because  he  be- 
lieved the  latter  when  he  promised  to  tell 
all  the  other  newspapers  about  it.  This 


The  Stolen  Story 

shows  what  a  new  official  he  was.  It  also 
suggests  that  a  great  deal  of  carefulness 
would  be  required  to  work  up  the  story. 

"  There  isn't  a  man  here  that  can  handle 
that  story  right,"  the  managing  editor  said. 
That  was  five  minutes  before  Woods  left 
The  Day  office.  About  three  minutes  after 
he  came  to  The  Earth's  office,  McCarthy 
was  saying :  "  Well,  Mr.  Woods,  what  do 
you  think  of  that  for  a  story  to  begin  with !  " 

The  instant  McCarthy  left  off  promising 
him  great  things  and  began  to  tell  about 
this  piece  of  news  Woods  had  left  off  sul- 
lenly comparing  this  city  editor  with  Mr. 
White,  and  began  listening  in  his  tense,  ab- 
sorbed manner,  and  now  could  have  repeat- 
ed McCarthy's  every  word  and  intonation. 
"  Is  that  tip  absolutely  straight  ?  "  he  asked, 
scowling. 

"  You  see  who  it's  from.  There's  the 
Commissioner's  name." 

Billy  Woods  reached  for  his  hat  and  stick 
with  his  right  hand,  and  some  copy  paper 
with  his  left.  "  Then  it'll  make  the  biggest 
local  story  this  year,"  he  said. 

"  Cover  it  thoroughly,  Mr.  Woods. 
15 


The  Stolen  Story 

Make  one  of  your  artistic  stories  of  it.  Don't 
try  to  round  it  up  by  to-night.  Take  two 
days  to  it.  The  Commissioner's  out  of 
town,  so  none  of  the  other  papers  will " 

But  Woods  was  half  way  down  the  room, 
and  his  head  was  tipped  back.  It  was  less 
than  an  hour  since  he  had  stalked  out  of 
The  Day  office  with  the  same  gait,  but  he 
had  forgotten  all  about  that  now.  He  had 
forgotten  how  he  had  intended  to  make 
himself  forget.  He  was  keenly  and  joyous- 
ly alive,  and  every  faculty  was  hot  for  work 
and  glowing  with  the  delicious  excitement 
of  one  hurrying  to  perform  a  big  feat  that 
he  is  confident  of  doing  well.  This  thing 
is  a  form  of  intoxication,  too,  though  it  is 
not  usually  called  that. 

First  he  ran  across  to  the  City  Hall  and 
sauntered  into  the  Mayor's  office  and  had 
a  talk  with  the  Mayor's  private  secretary, 
who  called  him  Billy,  and  asked  what  he 
could  do  for  him  to-day.  Here  Woods 
talked  arrogantly  and  found  out  what  had 
been  the  Mayor's  attitude  at  a  certain  hear- 
ing a  month  before.  Then  he  jumped  on  a 
Broadway  cable-car  and  went  down  to  Wall 
16 


The  Stolen  Story 

Street  to  catch  the  president  of  a  certain 
large  corporation  before  he  went  out  to 
luncheon.  It  was  nearly  two  o'clock,  but 
Woods  knew  something  of  the  habits  of  all 
prominent  New  Yorkers,  and  this  one 
lunched  late. 

"  Just  gone  a  few  minutes  ago,"  said  the 
boy,  and  then  Woods  slammed  the  door  and 
remembered  that  this  was  Wednesday  and 
that  the  old  gentleman  had  to  finish  his 
luncheon  in  time  for  the  meeting  of  the 
Rapid  Transit  Commission  at  three  o'clock. 
"  I  could  have  caught  him  on  the  way  into 
the  club,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  and 
cursed  his  stupidity  all  the  way  back  to  the 
Equitable  and  up  the  elevator  to  the  Law- 
yers' Club. 

There  were  several  other  men  in  the 
neighborhood  of  The  Street  to  be  seen,  but 
he  did  not  stop  now  because  the  whole  story 
hung  on  this  president's  statement.  And 
it  was  necessary  to  bag  him  before  the 
Rapid  Transit  Commission  meeting,  be- 
cause immediately  after  it  the  old  gentleman 
would  take  a  train  for  his  place  in  the  coun- 
try and  play  golf. 


The  Stolen  Story 

But  of  course  he  did  not  interrupt  the 
president  at  luncheon.  That  would  have 
killed  the  story.  He  sent  his  card  to  the 
steward,  whom  he  knew  well  and  who,  at 
Wood's  request,  sent  out  the  head  wait- 
er of  the  white  and  gold  room.  From  him 
Woods  found  out  that  the  president  had  a 
friend  lunching  with  him,  that  he  had  sent 
down  a  larger  order  than  usual  to-day,  with 
claret  instead  of  ale,  and  was  now  only  fin- 
ishing the  oysters.  So  Woods  knew  he 
had  no  other  engagement  before  the  Rapid 
Transit  meeting  at  three  and  it  would  be 
safe  to  leave  him  for  three-quarters  of  an 
hour. 

He  hurried  down  to  Wall  Street  again 
and  called  upon  five  lawyers.  Woods  hated 
lawyers.  But  he  was  lucky  enough  to  find 
on  the  first  trial  two  of  them  unengaged  as 
well  as  in,  and  on  the  second  trial  he  caught 
a  third  and  he  found  out  just  what  he  want- 
ed. Most  reporters  would  have  secured 
nothing.  It  required  talent. 

With  the  first,  he  did  what  his  friends  used 
to  call  his  "  refined  ingenue  "  act.  The 
lawyer  who  thought,  as  most  lawyers  do, 
18 


The  Stolen  Story 

that  he  knew  all  about  the  ways  of  newspa- 
pers had  growled  out,  "  I  have  nothing  to 
say,"  but  he  looked  up  again  when  he  heard 
Woods's  gentle,  well-modulated  voice  say- 
ing, "  Certainly.  I  think  I  appreciate  your 
position  in  the  matter  exactly.  Of  course 
you  cannot  talk  about  the  company's  pri- 
vate affairs.  But  this  is  all  I  wanted  to 
know — that  is  if  it  is  not  unprofessional  in 
you  to  tell  me — is  it  so  that  " — and  in  a  few 
minutes  Billy  bowed  himself  out  of  the  pri- 
vate office  with  a  half-column  of  interview 
and  the  good-will  of  the  interviewed,  and 
was  looking  for  the  next  lawyer. 

This  time  he  saw  that  he  must  employ  the 
friendly  slangy  manner  which  a  few  years 
ago  would  have  made  him  despise  himself, 
but  he  was  used  to  it  now.  The  third  man 
he  bullied  outright.  "  Don't  try  to  be 
so  mysterious,"  he  sneered.  "  It  doesn't 
impress  me  at  all.  I'm  merely  asking  you 
a  civil  question,  and  if  you  don't  care  to  an- 
swer it  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  say  so,  and 
I'll  go  away.  But  you  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  this  thing  is  bound  to  come  out,  that 
it's  something  which  concerns  the  public 


The  Stolen  Story 

more  than  a  little,  and  something  the  citi- 
zens of  New  York  ought  to  know.  What's 
more,  I  am  going  to  tell  them.  It's  all  a 
matter  of  whether  you  want  me  to  get  your 
client's  side  of  it  or  not." 

And  the  little,  bald-headed  lawyer 
scowled  and  said,  "  There's  nothing  in  it,  at 
all.  Sit  down.  It's  simply  this  way,"  and 
told  Billy  what  he  already  knew  but  now 
had  authority  for,  which  made  it  good  news. 
It  was  not  good  news  before.  It  would  be 
poor  stuff  if  published  as  "  it  is  said,"  or 
"  there  is  reason  for  thinking,"  etc.  And  if 
printed  as  a  fact  without  quotation  marks  it 
would  invite  a  libel  suit. 

It  was  a  quarter  before  three  at  the  Law- 
yers' Club  when  the  president  lighted  a 
black  cigar  and  signed  a  check  for  it.  Billy 
Woods,  waiting  for  him  by  the  elevator,  had 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the  man  that  had 
lunched  with  him  step  across  the  recep- 
tion-room to  the  library,  and  the  further 
satisfaction  of  noting  by  the  clock  that  the 
president  would  not  have  to  hurry  to  the 
meeting.  Little  things  of  this  sort  often 
mean  a  column  or  two. 
20 


The  Stolen  Story 

The  dignified  president  was  feeling  benign 
after  his  luncheon  and  his  success  at  mak- 
ing his  guest  see  the  wisdom  of  a  certain 
plan  of  reorganization.  He  shook  Billy's 
hand  almost  jovially  and  said,  "  Well,  my 
boy,"  to  him.  They  walked  up  Broadway 
together.  The  old  gentleman  was  deaf  and 
Billy  shouted  at  him. 

After  spending  the  time  between  the 
Equitable  and  Maiden  Lane  in  trying  ap- 
parently to  make  the  pleasant-mooded  old 
gentleman  admit  a  certain  state  of  affairs  in 
regard  to  a  certain  franchise,  which  he 
wouldn't,  Woods  employed  the  remainder 
of  their  walk  in  extracting  a  number  of 
strong,  emphatic  statements  from  him  to 
the  contrary,  which  was  exactly  what 
Woods  wanted.  And  he  naively  said  so  as 
they  bade  each  other  good-by,  "  only  they 
claim,  you  know,  sir,  that  they  have  a  per- 
fect legal  right  to  do  it." 

"  They  claim !  the  damned  lying  thieves ! 
they'd  claim  the  whole  of  Manhattan  Isl- 
and if  they  could."  Only,  this  remark  Billy 
was  considerate  enough  to  leave  out  of  his 
interview,  for  it  would  not  have  looked  well 


The  Stolen  Story 

in  type  with  this  benevolent  old  gentle- 
man's quotation  marks  about  it.  Besides, 
the  president  had  been  stirred  to  indigestion 
as  it  was,  and  deserved  to  be  spared  further 
discomfort  out  of  gratitude.  For  from  him 
Woods  had  obtained  a  succinct  statement 
of  facts — which  he  was  now  rapidly  writing 
down,  word  for  word,  by  a  Broadway  corner 
lamp-post — a  perfect  crowbar  of  a  state- 
ment it  was,  with  which  Billy  could  prod 
and  pry  out  the  whole  of  the  story,  and  with- 
out which  he  could  have  done  nothing.  The 
story  was  practically  secured  now.  The 
rest  was  only  a  matter  of  time,  for  Woods. 

There  were  nearly  a  dozen  persons,  up 
and  down  town,  of  various  walks  of  life  and 
degrees  of  importance  that  he  had  to  see, 
and  it  was  now  three  o'clock.  He  had  not 
heard  what  McCarthy  said  about  taking 
two  days  to  the  story,  and  would  not  have 
done  so  if  he  had.  He  gulped  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee and  a  sandwich,  stepped  into  a  cigar- 
store,  turned  the  pages  of  the  directory  over 
rapidly  several  times  and  then  started  out. 

At  ten  o'clock  that  evening  he  sighed  and 
said,  "  Well,  that's  the  last.  That  covers 

22 


The  Stolen  Story 

it."  He  had  just  hurried  down  some  stone 
steps  in  Seventieth  Street  and  was  making 
for  the  Seventy-second  Street  "  L  "  station. 
He  had  forgotten  to  dine. 

He  outlined  his  story  on  the  half-hour 
trip  downtown.  He  was  so  intent  that  he 
did  not  hear  the  guard  call  out  the  stations. 
When  the  train  turned  the  sharp  little  curve 
into  Murray  Street,  he  arose  automatically, 
walked  to  the  door,  then  stepped  out  when 
the  train  stopped  at  Park  Place,  loped  down 
the  stairs  just  as  he  had  done  hundreds  of 
times  before,  and  hurried  up  toward  City 
Hall  Park.  He  was  planning  his  introduc- 
tion now.  He  prided  himself  on  the  re- 
serve of  his  introductions.  He  did  not  hear 
a  few  belated  newsboys  crying  sporting  edi- 
tions in  the  park  or  see  the  indigent  and 
sleepy  ones  on  the  benches  about  the  foun- 
tain. He  hurried  across  the  street  and  me- 
chanically dodged  a  clanging  Third  Avenue 
cable-car,  smiling  to  himself  as  a  fetching 
opening  sentence  flashed  into  his  mind. 
Then,  like  a  homing  pigeon,  he  darted  in  at 
the  familiar  doorway  of  The  Day,  just  as  he 
had  always  done ;  ran  up  the  stairs  two  steps 
23 


The  Stolen  Story 

at  a  time,  unlatched  the  gate,  hurried  down 
to  his  old  desk,  swore  at  somebody's  coat 
lying  there,  threw  it  upon  another  desk,  sat 
down  and  began  to  write  like  nothing  in  the 
world  but  a  reporter  with  a  tremendous 
beat,  who  knows  only  that  the  paper  goes  to 
press  within  three  hours. 


Ill 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Stone,  the  night  city  ed- 
itor of  The  Day,  had  come  on  at  5.30  o'clock 
to  take  the  desk,  and  the  first  thing  Mr. 
White  said  to  him  was,  "  Billy's  gone  at 
last." 

Stone  took  out  his  pipe  and  said,  "  Too 
bad,"  which  was  a  good  deal  for  the  night 
city  editor  to  say ;  then  he  put  it  back  again 
and  went  over  the  assignment  list  with 
White. 

The  copy-editors  began  gathering  in  now 

and  they  also  said  "  Too  bad."    But  they 

had  considerably  more  to  say  than  that; 

for  Sampson,  the  old  reporter,  had  by  this 

24 


The  Stolen  Story 

time  related  to  the  whole  staff  what  The 
Herald  man  had  told  him  about  the  trip  up 
the  bay  in  the  tug.  He  said  it  was  only 
one  of  a  series  of  attempts  on  the  part  of 
The  Earth  office  at  making  Billy  Woods 
drunk — not  merely  in  order  to  get  The  Day 
beaten  on  the  news,  but  to  get  hold  of  The 
Day's  best  reporter. 

"  And  that  is  the  only  way  they  ever  could 
get  Billy  to  join  their  dirty  sheet,"  some- 
body remarked. 

"  Well,"  said  Bascom,  the  ancient  copy- 
reader,  sadly,  "  I  see  his  finish — in  that  pret- 
ty crowd.  ...  I  suppose  they'll  hunt  him 
up  as  soon  as  he's  sober." 

"  That  won't  be  for  a  week,"  said  some- 
body else.  Then  each  sat  down  before  a 
little  pile  of  copy  and  began  his  night's 
work.  This  was  about  the  time  most  of 
the  town  was  sitting  down  to  its  dinner. 

At  twenty  minutes  before  eleven  the  Po- 
lice Head-quarters  man  sent  in  by  telephone 
a  bunch  of  precinct  returns — arrests,  acci- 
dents, and  so  on.  Mr.  Stone  turned  his  glis- 
tening eye-glasses  down  the  room  over  the 
even  rows  of  reporters'  desks  to  see  whom 
25 


The  Stolen  Story 

to  send  out  on  one  of  these  stories.  Most 
of  the  men  were  still  scattered  about  over 
the  town  and  adjacent  country  on  assign- 
ments; those  in  the  office  were  all,  except 
one  of  the  new  reporters,  busily  writing, 
with  coats  off  and  the  incandescent  lights 
gleaming  on  shirt-sleeves  and  copy  paper. 

Just  then  a  man  entered  the  room  in  a 
hurry.  Stone  turned  to  the  assistant  night 
city  editor.  "  Haskill,"  he  said,  "  who's  that 
sitting  down  in  Woods's  old  place?"  One 
cannot  have  the  best  eyesight  and  the  best 
copy-reading  ability  in  town  at  the  same 
time. 

"  Why,  it's  Billy  himself,"  said  Haskill. 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Stone ;  "  what's  he 
doing  here  ?  " 

"  Lord  knows,"  said  Haskill,  running  his 
pencil  through  a  half  page  of  some  poor 
space-grabber's  copy.  "  Guess  he's  going 
to  write  a  note  to  leave  for  someone." 

Stone  called  up  Linton,  the  cub,  handed 
him  the  Head-quarters  report,  said,  "  Hur- 
ry," and  bent  over  the  Senator  Platt  inter- 
view he  was  "  reading  "  for  the  first  page. 

It  was  not  good  Park  Row  form  for  a 
26 


The  Stolen  Story 

man  to  walk  into  the  office  from  which  he 
had  so  recently  been  dismissed,  but  it  was 
getting  on  toward  midnight  and  there  were 
more  important  things  to  think  about.  At 
least  Stone  and  Haskill  thought  so.  Mean- 
while Woods,  looking  intense,  began  to  fill 
many  sheets  of  paper  with  good  writing. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  man  came  in  who 
had  been  sent  out  to  Hasbrouck  Heights 
to  get  up  a  humorous  family-quarrel  story 
which  did  not  turn  out  to  be  so  funny  as  he 
had  hoped.  He  walked  up  to  the  desk  and 
began  to  tell  Mr.  Stone,  who  kept  on  read- 
ing copy,  what  he  had  found  out.  When  he 
finished  Stone  looked  up  with  his  usual  cyn- 
ical, bored  expression  long  enough  to  say, 
"About  two  sticks — keep  it  inside  quar- 
ter of  a  column  anyway."  But  when  he 
looked  up,  he  once  more  spied  Woods  down 
there.  He  bent  over  his  work  again,  but 
said,  "  He's  still  there,  Haskill." 

"Who?" 

"  Woods.  Here,  boy,"  ringing  the  bell, 
"  copy.  Haskill,  will  you  find  out  what 
Jevins  wants  at  the  'phone,  please  ?  " 

"  Still  writing,  too,"  said  Haskill,  aris- 
27 


The  Stolen  Story 

ing.  "  Must  be  writing  letters  to  the  whole 
staff." 

Haskill  went  down  the  room  and  took  a 
story  off  the  telephone  from  the  man  who 
had  been  sent  up  to  Poughkeepsie  to  find 
out  about  a  murder  and  could  not  get  down 
before  the  paper  went  to  press.  This  re- 
quired ten  minutes  and  Woods  kept  on  writ- 
ing furiously.  Thus  far  no  one  else  had 
noticed  him  except  the  office-boys,  who 
wondered. 

On  the  way  from  the  telephone  closet 
Haskill  walked  around  by  Woods's  desk. 
Quite  from  force  of  editorial  habit  he 
glanced  over  the  writer's  shoulder,  and  then 
he  stopped  short.  He  leaned  over,  ran  his 
eye  rapidly  down  the  rest  of  the  page,  then 
turned  and  fairly  ran  up  the  room  with  a 
scared  look  on  his  face.  He  grabbed  Stone 
by  the  shoulder  and  whispered  a  few  quick, 
excited  words  in  his  ear. 

The  editor  instantly  straightened  up  in 
his  chair. 

"What's  that?  Are  you  sure?  The 
aldermen!  "  Then,  at  the  rate  of  four  hun- 
dred words  to  the  minute,  "Why,  that 
28 


The  Stolen  Story 

means  a  million  dollar  steal — who  are  the 
aldermen — when  were  they  going  to  put  the 
plot  through — Haskill,  where  did  Woods 
get  this  story  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  I  only  saw  that  one  page," 
returned  Haskill,  excitedly  starting  down 
the  room  again.  "  I'll  ask " 

"  Wait  a  minute." 

Haskill  turned  around.  Stone  was  look- 
ing puzzled.  "  Why  is  he  writing  this  story 
for  us?" 

"  Stone,  how  do  I  know !  but,  this  story 

is    tremendous,    man — tremendous!      I'll 
?> 

Stone  took  him  by  the  arm.  "  Sit  down. 
Certainly  it's  a  big  story,  but  listen :  If  you 
were  in  his  place  and  had  picked  up  a  beat, 
would  you  come  here  with  it?  Under  the 
circumstances,  you'd  think  he'd  go  to  any 
other  office  in  town  first.  Haskill,  I  don't 
understand  this  thing " 

"That's  Billy  Woods  you're  talking 
about,  isn't  it?"  Harwood,  the  assistant 
theatrical  man,  had  just  come  in  and  was 
taking  off  his  coat  to  write  unkind  words 
about  a  first  night.  "  You  needn't  look  so 
29 


The  Stolen  Story 

excited  about  it.  It's  easy  enough  to  under- 
stand. They  offered  him  $150  a  week 
guarantee — that's  the  reason  he  didn't  go 
to  any  other  office  first."  He  had  overheard 
only  the  last  words. 

Stone  turned  quickly  and  looked  at  Har- 
wood.  "  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"About  Billy  Woods.  Why,  haven't 
you  heard  the  latest — about  his  going  to 
The  Earth  just  after  he  left  us?  " 

Haskill  gasped  out  a  "  What ! "  and 
looked  at  Stone.  Stone  said  nothing  and 
gazed  at  Harwood. 

"  It's  so,  though."  Harwood's  voice  was 
lazy  and  gossipy.  "  Two  of  their  men  told 
me  about  it  uptown  at  dinner." 

"  Harwood,"  whispered  Haskill,  taking 
him  impressively  by  the  shoulder.  "  Look 
down  there!  He's  been  here — we  don't 
know  how  long." 

"  Great  Scott !  What's  he  doing  in  this 
office?" 

"  Shss — writing  the  biggest  beat  of  the 
year — Good    heavens,    Stone,    what's    the 
matter  ?  "    The  night  city  editor  had  sud- 
denly jumped  out  of  his  chair. 
30 


The  Stolen  Story 

"  Great  Scott!  what  is  it?"  from  Har- 
wood. 

But  Stone,  with  an  unusual  look  in  his 
face,  only  started  down  the  room  with  Has- 
kill  running  behind  him,  saying,  in  a  low, 
beseeching  tone,  "  What's  the  matter, 
Stone,  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  No,"  muttered  Stone,  suddenly  stop- 
ping. "  That  would  only  wake  him  up  and 

make  him  realize Haskill,  how  shall 

we  work  it  ?  Quick !  "  he  snarled,  angrily ; 
"  something  is  liable  to  happen  that 
will " 

"  Work  what !  what're  you  talking  about, 
man?" 

Stone  started  toward  Woods  again,  then, 
stopping  so  abruptly  that  Haskill  bumped 
into  him,  he  fairly  screamed,  "Jones! 
Jones!  Jones!  Come  up  to  the  desk,"  and 
started  up  the  room  himself  sidewise,  as  if 
to  draw  Jones  away  from  Woods  (Haskill 
trotting  along  behind).  For  Jones  had  just 
finished  writing,  and,  being  idle,  had  spied 
Billy  Woods,  had  started  around  toward  his 
desk  and  had  gone  as  far  as  "  Why,  hello, 
Billy,"  when  Stone  cut  him  off. 
31 


The  Stolen  Story 

The  rest  of  the  reporters  had  heard  the 
impatient  calling  and  wondered  for  a  sec- 
ond or  two  what  big  piece  of  news  had  come 
in,  but  did  not  look  up  from  their  work. 
But  one  of  the  copy-readers  exclaimed, 
"  Hello !  there's  Billy  Woods." 

"  Come  here,  Mr.  Harwood,"  Stone  was 
saying  in  a  quick  voice.  Haskill  was  al- 
ready there,  looking  with  dumb  amazement 
in  his  superior's  face.  Jones  was  there 
too. 

"Now  listen,"  safd  Stone.  He  had 
formed  his  plan  and  now  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  desk.  "  Woods  left  our  staff  to-day,  as 
you  know.  Since  then  he  has  run  across  the 
beat  of  the  year  and  has  walked  into  our' 
office  and  is  writing  it  now " 

"  Oh,  you  mean "  exclaimed  Haskill, 

with  intelligence  and  then  alarm  running 
into  his  eyes. 

"  Exactly.    Now  listen." 

"  Great  Scott !  "  said  Harwood,  the  the- 
atrical man,  in  a  low  solemn  voice,  "  from 
force  of  habit,  you  mean." 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Haskill,  "  in  his  old, 
absent-minded  way."     They  both  looked 
32 


The  Stolen  Story 

down  toward  Woods,  but  Jones  was  ask- 
ing, mystified,  "  What's  this,  what's  this  ?  " 

Haskill  and  Harwood  dashed  the  idea  at 
him  like  cold  water  in  his  face,  while  at  the 
same  time  Stone  went  on  incisively :  "  Now, 
though  Woods  is  not  a  member  of  our  staff, 
he  has  just  as  much  right  to  sit  here  and 
write  as  any  free  lance  that  brings  in 
stories." 

"  But  say,  Stone,"  whispered  Harwood. 

"  Please  keep  still.  I  tell  you  this  is  the 
exposure  that  was  rumored  was  coming; 
and  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  the  Com- 
missioners never  give  things  of  this  sort  out, 
except  in  the  form  of  a  public  statement. 
There's  only  one  way  McCarthy  could  get 
that  tip  exclusively.  Here's  our  chance  to 
teach  him  his  lesson.  Please  keep  still,  Has- 
kill. That  story  is  not  to  get  out  of  this  office 
except  in  print.  Jones,  your  duty  for  the  rest 
of  this  night  is  to  see  to  it  that  no  one  speaks 
a  word  to  Woods  so  long  as  he  is  here. 
Don't  let  anybody  get  within  ten  feet  of  his 
desk,  except  me.  Don't  let  them  say  any- 
thing or  do  anything  that  is  likely  to  remind 
him  where  he  is.  Please,  keep  still,  Haskill. 
33 


The  Stolen  Story 

He's  liable  to  wake  up  any  moment.  Un- 
derstand?" 

Haskill  put  in,  "  Catch  everyone  as  he 
comes  into  the  office  and  put  him  on  to  the 
thing." 

It  was  unnecessary  to  say  anything  more 
to  Jones.  He  was  a  newspaper  man.  He 
hurried  toward  the  gate  where  a  couple  of 
reporters  were  entering  the  room. 

"  Now,  Haskill,"  said  Stone,  "  you  go 
around  and  tell  all  the  desk  men  in  the  office. 
And  Mr.  Harwood,  will  you  please " 

But  Stone  broke  off  abruptly. 

"  Heavens !  "  whispered  Haskill. 

Woods  had  arisen  from  his  chair  and  was 
looking  straight  up  at  them.  Then  he 
turned  and  walked  rapidly  down  the  room 
toward  the  gate. 

Stone  and  Haskill  and  Harwood  bolted 
down  on  tiptoe  after  him.  But  he  wheeled 
off  to  the  right,  passed  the  newspaper  files, 
stepped  up  to  the  water-cooler  and  filled  a 
glass.  He  always  looked  around  the  room 
before  getting  a  drink  and  they  ought  to 
have  remembered  it.  They  did  now.  Has- 
kill was  turning  over  an  afternoon  paper, 
34 


The  Stolen  Story 

as  if  in  a  great  hurry  for  something.  Har- 
wood  was  standing  by  the  telephone-box 
trying  to  look  as  if  he  had  never  thought 
of  Billy  Woods.  But  Stone  calmly  turned 
back  and  walked  across  to  Woods's  desk. 

There  lay  some  pages  of  finely  written 
copy.  His  experienced  eye  skimmed  over 
a  paragraph.  It  made  him  lust  for  the  rest. 
It  was  risky,  but  he  reached  over,  whisked 
up  the  closely  written  sheets,  all  but  the  last 
one,  and  hurried  up  to  the  desk  with  them 
just  as  Woods  put  down  the  glass,  emitting 
a  wet-lipped  "  Ah !  "  and  started  back,  wip- 
ing his  hand  on  his  trousers.  As  he  passed 
Haskill  he  was  humming  a  little,  tuneless 
tune.  He  sat  down,  ran  his  hand  through 
his  hair  a  moment,  then,  leaning  over,  be- 
gan to  write  rapidly  again,  putting  the  next 
finished  page  on  top  of  the  one  sheet  left 
as  unquestioningly  as  a  hen  goes  to  laying 
over  one  nest  egg. 

Meanwhile,  Stone,  reading  the  copy  as 
rapidly  as  he  alone  could,  hastily  scrawled 
(Nonp.  Double  lead — Rush)  across  the  first 
page  and  sent  it  up  to  the  composing-room, 
where  the  foreman,  dividing  it  into  several 
35 


The  Stolen  Story 

"  takes,"  gave  them  to  several  compositors, 
who  put  them  in  type  as  fast  as  they  knew 
how.  In  a  few  minutes  the  galley  proofs 
were  down  on  Stone's  desk,  with  Haskill 
bending  over  Stone's  shoulder  saying, 
"  Isn't  it  beautiful!  Isn't  it  beautiful!  " 

Stone  made  a  printer's  sign  on  the  mar- 
gin to  turn  a  "  u  "  right  side  up  and  said : 
"  This  much  is  ours,  anyway." 

Haskill  said,  "  Think  we'll  get  it  all?  " 

Stone  glanced  down  at  Woods.  "  Hello," 
he  said,  "  what's  that  boy  up  to  ?  " 

A  few  minutes  before,  one  of  the  numer- 
ous office-boys  had  brought  in  some  copy 
from  the  man  covering  a  spiritualist  con- 
vention uptown.  Now  he  was  walking 
slowly  up  and  down  behind  Billy  Woods. 
Presently  he  turned  and  walked  up  to  the 
desk.  He  was  an  odd-looking  boy  with  a 
peculiar,  matured  face.  He  looked  very 
solemn.  "Please,  Mr.  Stone,"  he  said, 
"  kin  I  go  home  now  ?  My  old  mother  is 
sick  and  I  promised  her " 

"  Well,  I'm  afraid  you  lied  to  her  if  you're 
not  lying  to  me,  for  you're  to  stay  here  till 
we  go  to  press  to-night." 
36 


The  Stolen  Story 

"  Nah,  I  won't,"  said  the  boy,  sullenly, 
"  I'll  t'row  up  me  job,  foist.  I  got  to  go 
home." 

"  You  can  throw  up  your  job  if  you  want 
to,  but  you  can't  go  home  till  the  paper  goes 
to  press.  Run  on  down  to  the  end  of  the 
room  where  you  belong."  . 

But  Stone  followed  after  him. 

"  John,"  he  said  to  the  head  boy  by  the 
gate,  "  no  boy  can  get  out  of  this  office  to- 
night on  any  excuse  till  after  we  go  to  press 
— not  even  on  errands,  without  my  permis- 
sion. Understand?" 

John  said,  "  Yes,  sir,"  and  was  excited. 
So  were  all  the  other  boys.  The  very  buzz- 
ing of  the  electric  fans  was  abnormal  to- 
night. There  was  suppressed  excitement 
in  the  scurrying  cockroaches  when  the  re- 
porters opened  their  desk-drawers.  Stone 
returned  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"  That  youngster,"  he  said  to  Haskill,  "  is 
the  one  we  are  after.  I've  thought  so  all 
along." 

"  Then  why  didn't  you  drop  him  long 
ago?" 

"  There  would  be  another  here  inside  of 
37 


The  Stolen  Story 

a  week.  We'll  catch  this  one  red-handed. 
That  may  stop  their  dirty  work." 

The  reporters  were  rounding  up  with  the 
late  stories.  Everyone  that  came  into  the 
room,  no  matter  how  important  his  news, 
was  first  halted  at  the  gate  by  Jones.  Woods 
kept  on  writing  uninterruptedly.  The  men 
only  looked  over  at  him  in  awe ;  then  went 
up  to  the  desk  to  tell  their  news. 

"  Haskill,"  said  Stone  ("  go  on  talking," 
to  one  of  the  reporters),  "  the  room  is  get- 
ting too  full  of  people  thinking  about  the 
same  thing.  If  they  keep  on  looking  at 
Woods  they'll  hypnotize  him  into  realiza- 
tion of  everything — no  matter  how  intense 
he  is.  Clear  out  the  room."  ("  Go  on  talk- 
ing, Lee.  I  can  hear  you."  Lee  went  on.) 
"  Tell  Smith  to  start  up  a  poker  game  in 
the  back  room." 

"  Stone,"  whispered  Haskill,  as  he 
started  to  go,  "  what's  the  matter  with  him 
now?" 

"  Needs  copy  -  paper,"  said  Stone. 
("  That's  no  good,  Lee,  don't  write  any- 
thing.") And  grabbing  a  bunch  of  paper 
himself,  the  editor  walked  down  and  tossed 
38 


The  Stolen  Story 

it  in  front  of  Woods,  who  growled, 
"  Thanks,  boy,"  without  lifting  his  eyes. 

Stone  hurried  on  down  the.room.  "  Boys, 
come  here,"  he  said — "  all  you  boys." 
He  sat  down  on  a  desk.  They  gathered 
about  him.  Their  faces  were  almost  ghast- 
ly, it  was  so  horrifyingly  unusual  to  be  rec- 
ognized by  Mr.  Stone,  except  as  he  rec- 
ognized the  bell  he  punched  or  the  floor 
he  threw  copy  upon. 

"  You  boys,"  he  said,  "  there's  a  big  beat 
in  this  office  to-night."  They  knew  that, 
and  he  knew  they  did.  "  If  it  gets  out  of 
here  you  all  get  out,  too — every  one  of  you. 
Understand  ?  You  are  all  to  be  discharged 
unless  we  beat  the  town  on  this  story." 
Then  he  left  them.  They  even  kept  silent 
for  several  seconds.  But  that  may  have 
been  because  Stone  had  turned  over  to 
where  Woods  was  writing.  Jones  saw  this 
and  Jones's  jaw  dropped. 

There  was  Billy,  tapping  with  his  fingers 
on  the  desk  as  if  waiting  for  a  word,  and  as 
Stone  came  near  he  looked  up  and  smiled 
amiably.  It  was  a  sweet,  childlike  smile, 
and  those  watching  never  forgot  it.  Stone 
39 


The  Stolen  Story 

looked  straight  back  at  him.  It  was  the 
only  thing  to  do.  The  mere  lowering  of  his 
eyes  might  kill  the  grandest  beat  of  the  year. 

By  telepathy,  perhaps,  nearly  everyone 
in  the  room  let  go  his  work  for  the  moment 
and  was  now  watching  these  two  smile  at 
each  other.  The  whole  room  held  its  breath 
av  it  saw  Stone  stop,  close  beside  Woods. 
Its  heart  ceased  beating  as  it  heard  him  ask, 
"  How  much  more  of  this  is  there,  Woods  ?  " 
It  was  his  normal  tone,  too. 

"  Oh,  well,  I'm  over  half  through,  I 
think."  It  was  the  first  time  in  four  days, 
for  some  of  them,  that  Woods's  voice  had 
been  heard.  It  was  quite  natural. 

"  Hurry  it  along,"  said  Stone,  and  then 
he  had  the  audacity  to  hold  out  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Billy,  and  from  force  of 
habit  handed  Stone  the  written  sheets  of 
copy,  then  leaned  over  and  started  in  writ- 
ing intensely  again,  and  The  Day  staff 
thanked  Heaven. 

When  Stone  reached  the  desk  Haskill 
looked  admiringly  at  him  a  moment  before 
saying,  "  My !  you've  got  nerve." 

"  He's  as  safe  as  a  man  without  a  mem- 
40 


The  Stolen  Story 

ory,"  said  Stone,  as  he  marked  on  the  copy 
(Add  Aldermen  Swindle).  But  the  fingers 
he  did  it  with  trembled. 

The  hands  of  the  clock  went  on  around 
and  Woods  went  on  scowling  and  throwing 
off  page  after  page  of  copy.  The  night  ed- 
itor came  down  from  the  composing-room, 
where  he  was  making  up,  and  whispered  to 
Stone,  "  He'll  soon  be  through,  Stone, 
won't  he?" 

Stone  did  not  answer,  for  he  saw  one  of 
the  boys  stealing  hastily  up  toward  the  desk. 
"  Mr.  Stone,"  said  the  boy,  looking 
ashamed,  "  Tommy  Donovan's  up  to  some 
game  at  the  'phone.  He's  been  runnin'  in 
an'  out  of  the  box  for  half  an  hour.  We 
think  he's  givin'  up  Mr.  Woods's  beat. 
He's  in  there  again  an' " 

"All  right,"  said  Stone,  "let  him  get 
them."  Then  turning  to  Haskill,  "I 
thought  they  would  be  able  to  tell  us  some- 
thing if  they  tried.  Now  you  watch  Woods, 
Haskill." 

Stone  stepped  into  the  adjoining  room, 
walked  past  the  night  editorial  writer  and 
into  the  chief's  room,  picked  up  the  private 


The  Stolen  Story 

telephone  and  turned  on  the  switch  in  time 
to  hear,  "  Well,  you  tell  the  man  at  the  desk 
it's  T.  D. — in  a  hurry." 

Mr.  Stone  pulled  down  the  switch  and 
shut  off  the  circuit  of  the  Day's  outer  office, 
ran  out  into  the  main  room  again,  tiptoed 
down  to  the  telephone-box  where  he  found 
Tommy  sending  boyish  oaths  at  Central  for 
cutting  him  off. 

Stone  reached  in  and  put  a  hand  over  his 
mouth.  "  You  needn't  swear,  boy,"  he  said. 
"  It's  against  the  rules  of  the  company.  Be- 
sides, they  can't  hear  you.  Come,  I'll  show 
you  why." 

Through  an  avenue  of  big-eyed  other 
boys  Stone  led  Tommy  into  the  private 
room.  "  You  see  I  cut  you  off."  He  pushed 
the  switch  back  again.  "  Now  you  could 
talk  with  The  Earth  office  again  if  you  were 
there.  Come,  we'll  go  into  this  nice  little 
room  over  here.  Now,  then,  this  is  to  be 
your  private  office  until  we  go  to  press. 
Then  your  resignation  will  be  voted  upon. 
It  may  prove  better  for  you,  though,  if  you 
tell  me  what  you  were  going  to  tell  the  man 
at  the  desk." 

42 


The  Stolen  Story 

Just  then  Haskill's  excited  voice  was 
heard.  "Stone!  Stone!  for  Heaven's  sake, 
where  are  you  ?  " 

"Right  here.    What's  the  matter?  " 

Haskill  appeared  at  the  threshold,  pant- 
ing: "Stone,  Billy's  through  writing! 
He's  standing  up  by  his  desk  looking 
over  the  last  pages.  But  he's  running 
his  hand  through  his  hair;  so  I  think  he 
must  be  going  to  add  a  little  more,  don't 
you?  " 

Impulsively  Stone  grasped  his  assistant 
by  the  arm.  "  Haskill,  listen.  We  lose  our 
beat  if  Woods  leaves  this  office  before  we  go 
to  press." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  soon  as  he's  finished  writ- 
ing " 

"  He'll  get  drunk,  Stone." 

"  No,  he'll  come  to  himself  first — realize 
everything,  soon  as  the  tension  is  off  his 
nerves — then,  don't  you  see  what'll  hap- 
pen  " 

"  Why,  first  he'll  have  a  spasm  or  some- 
thing at  realizing  what  he's  done,  then  I  tell 

you,  Stone,  he'll  go  and  get " 

43 


The  Stolen  Story 

"  You  don't  know  Woods.  He'll  go  like 
the  devil  over  to  his  new  bosses  and  con- 
fess the  whole  thing." 

"  They'll  give  him ' 

"  But  not  till  they've  made  him  sit  down 
and  dictate  the  whole  story  to  a  relay  of 
stenographers — there's  still  time  for  it — 
Then  where's  our  beat,  Haskill !  " 

"  We've  got  to  keep  him  here  then." 

"  But  if  he  suddenly  comes  to  now,  here 
in  this  office,  Haskill?" 

"  Then  hold  him  anyway,  Stone !  " 

"  But  we  can't,  man ;  he's  no  office-boy." 
They  both  looked  at  the  boy  in  Stone's 
grasp.  He  had  been  quietly  taking  in  all 
they  said;  also  several  features  about  the 
room  that  pleased  him. 

"  Here,"  said  Stone,  "  you  lock  up  this 
boy — lock  him  up  tight.  I'll  fix  Woods 
somehow."  And  he  ran  back  to  the  outer 
room  in  time  to  see  Billy,  who  had  decided 
not  to  write  any  more  after  all,  tap  the  col- 
lected sheets  of  copy  even  against  the  desk- 
top and  start,  rather  gayly  it  seemed,  up  the 
room.  Stone  almost  ran  to  beat  him  to  the 
desk. 

44 


The  Stolen  Story 

Woods  put  his  copy  down  upon  the  desk. 
"  Here's  the  rest  of  it,"  he  said,  briskly. 

Stone  apparently  paid  no  attention. 

Woods  picked  the  sheets  up  again  and 
planked  them  down  directly  under  Stone's 
eyes.  "  That  winds  her  up,"  he  said. 

The  editor  made  no  sign. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Woods. 

Stone  picked  up  the  copy  in  silence,  won- 
dering what  to  do. 

"  Good-night,  I  said,  Mr.  Stone.  I'm  go- 
ing home."  He  started  off. 

"  Er — oh,  say  Woods — hold  up.  We 
don't  want  you  to  go  yet." 

Woods  stopped  ten  feet  away.  He  turned 
around  slowly.  "  But  I'm  nearly  dead,"  he 
said,  smiling,  and  he  looked  it.  "  I'd  like 
to  get  something  to  eat  and  go  to  bed." 

"  Wait  till  I  read  your  copy." 

Woods  sighed. 

Stone  thought  he  saw  the  tense  lines  fad- 
ing out  of  his  countenance.  That  would 
never  do.  "  Besides,  Woods,"  he  said, 
"  you  haven't  enough  here.  You  don't 
seem  to  realize  what  a  big  story  this  is." 

But  Woods  was  realizing  that  he  was 
45 


The  Stolen  Story 

tired.  It  was  like  asking  a  man  to  run  just 
one  more  lap  at  the  end  of  a  mile  race.  He 
said,  in  a  hurt  tone, "  I've  covered  the  story, 
I  think." 

Stone  knew  that  in  a  moment  more  he 
might  realize  everything.  An  inspiration 
came  to  him.  "  Why,  see  here,  Woods,  why 
don't  you  round  up  your  story  with  some 
detailed  personal  history  of  the  people  con- 
cerned and "  He  was  stopped  by  a 

gleam  that  suddenly  came  into  Woods's 
face. 

"  Say,  Mr.  Stone,"  said  the  reporter, 
reaching  up  and  running  his  hand  through 
his  hair — and  now  his  tone  was  tense  and 
eager  once  more — "  I've  just  done  that,  but 
I'll  tell  you:  A  few  sticks  about  similar  at- 
tempts in  the  past  would  be  good  stuff. 
Here,  give  me  some  copy-paper.  Dan,  run 
and  get  me  the  back  files  of  the  Tribune  for 
the  years — here,  I'll  write  'em  down — there, 
for  those  years.  Be  quick  about  it."  Woods 
was  a  born  reporter. 

Hurrying  back  to  his  desk  again,  and 
looking  happy,  he  began  throwing  off  sheets 
of  copy  with  one  hand,  holding  open  an  old 
46 


The  Stolen  Story 

bound  volume  of  the  Tribune  with  the  other, 
while  two  office  boys  were  hastily  stacking 
up  other  dusty  volumes  before  him.  Stone, 
at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  was  mopping 
his  brow. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  gate  clicked  and 
the  managing  editor  himself  came  hurrying 
into  the  office.  He  had  been  dining  out 
Stone  dived  at  him. 

The  managing  editor  showed  no  astonish- 
ment, because  nothing  ever  astonished  him, 
but  at  the  conclusion  he  whispered,  gravely, 
"  Say,  Stone,  perhaps  I'd  better  hide  in  the 
closet.  Woods  may  look  up  and  wonder 
at  my  dress  suit." 

Stone,  who  was  watching  Woods  like  a 
delicate  machine,  growled  abstractedly  to 
his  superior:  "  Talk  to  HaslalV  and  ran  to 
Billy,  saying:  "  Better  say  something  now 
about  future  possibilities — you  know  what 
I  mean." 

Woods  bobbed  his  head.  "  Here's  an- 
other batch,"  he  said. 

Stone  brought  the  copy  back  to  where  Mr. 
Manning  and  Haskill  were  standing.  "  Just 
look  at  that  good  English,"  he  whispered, 
•3 


The  Stolen  Story 

throwing  it  on  the  floor.  The  story  itself  was 
all  in  type  and  locked  up  in  the  form  now, 
and  Stone  had  put  a  head  on  it,  one  of  his 
characteristic  heads — a  big,  black-lettered 
head  that  would  in  a  few  hours  make  the  now 
sleeping  town  buzz  with  astonishment  and 
the  newsboys  rich  selling  Days  alone  if 

It  was  less  than  half  an  hour  from  the  time 
of  going  to  press.  Most  of  the  office  was 
getting  up  and  sitting  down  again,  or  step- 
ping about  the  room,  or  looking  at  the  clock. 

Mr.  Manning  wet  his  lips  and  said, 
"  Stone,  Woods  will  know  we  can't  take 
copy  much  longer.  Then  he  will  commence 
wondering,  then  he  will  wake  up,  then  he'll 
run  over  to  the  Earth  office  and " 

"Haskill,"  said  Stone,  "you're  fat;  go 
down  and  stand  in  front  of  Woods,  with 
your  back  toward  him." 

Haskill  walked  down  the  room.  Stone 
jumped  up  on  the  "  Jersey  "  desk,  jerked 
back  the  glass  door  of  the  clock,  shoved  the 
hands  back  twenty  minutes,  slammed  the 
door  shut  and  jumped  down  again.  Five 
minutes  later  Billy  called  up,  "  How  much 
more  can  you  take?" 
48 


The  Stolen  Story 

Stone  called  back  in  the  ghastly  stillness, 
"  Keep  on  writing  till  we  tell  you  to  stop. 
Write  fast."  Then,  in  a  low  tone,  "  That'll 
keep  you  from  thinking." 

It  was  so  silent  that  the  whole  room  heard 
Billy  muttering  "  Oh,  I  didn't  know  I  had 
so  much  time."  He  had  looked  at  the  clock. 

Another  minute  had  dragged  by  in  which 
the  clock  ticked  and  Woods's  pen  scratched 
and  the  rest  of  the  room  waited.  Haskill 
sighed  and  for  the  seventh  time  was  whisper- 
ing to  anybody,  "  Oh,  we've  surely  got  them 
beaten,  don't  you  think  so?"  when  two  of- 
fice-boys came  scurrying  in  through  the  gate 
and  up  the  room  with  looks  on  their  young 
faces  that  made  Stone  start  up  and  say, 
"  What's  coming,  now?  " 

He  had  just  sent  these  boys  out  to  see  why 
the  shipping  news  bureau  did  not  send  in 
anything  about  the  overdue  Lucania,  two 
boys  instead  of  one,  so  they  would  watch 
each  other.  They  ran  up  to  Stone,  holding 
out  a  letter. 

"  I  found  this,"  panted  one  of  them. 

"  No,  I  found  it,"  panted  the  other;   "it 
fluttered   down   from   some  place   upstairs 
here.    It  hit  Dan  on  the  head." 
49 


The  Stolen  Story 

Stone  had  snatched  it  up,  the  others  ea- 
gerly bending  over  it  with  him.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  "  The  night  editor  of  The  Earth 
— Rush,"  and  the  envelope  was  one  of  the 
regular  office  envelopes  with  "  The  Day  " 
printed  in  the  corner. 

•'What  does  this  mean?"  asked  Mr. 
Manning. 

"  Keep  Woods  writing,"  said  Stone,  over 
his  shoulder,  for  he  had  started  on  a  run  for 
the  private  office  now  occupied  by  Tommy 
Donovan. 

It  was  a  front  room  and  Tommy  was  lean- 
ing out  of  the  window.  Stone  grasped  him 
firmly  by  the  trousers.  "  What  are  you  do- 
ing, boy?  " 

"  Nuthin'."    He  was  unperturbed. 

"  Let's  see  your  fingers — the  other  hand. 
How  did  you  get  that  ink-mark?  " 

"  Writin'." 

"What.    This?"   showing  the  envelope. 

The  boy  waited  a  minute,  then  grinned. 
"  Yep,"  he  said. 

"What  does  it  say  inside?" 

The  boy  looked  up  at  Stone  and  then  said, 
calmly,  "  It  says  '  Billy  Woods  is  here  with 
5° 


The  Stolen  Story 

a  big  beat.  Yer  gotter  hustle  if  yer  want 
it.'  "  Then,  grinning  again,  "  Might's  well 
tell  yer,  long  as  yer  on." 

"  I  believe  you  this  time,"  said  the  editor, 
"  though  I  haven't  opened  it.  See?  It  was 
not  addressed  to  me." 

The  boy  sniffed  contemptuously,  either 
at  himself  or  at  Stone,  or  both.  Then  he 
impudently  looked  in  Stone's  eyes  and 
asked,  "  Why  don't  yer  send  it  to  The  Ear?, 
then?  " 

Stone  had  a  sense  of  humor  and  laughed. 
"  I  shall,  in  the  morning,"  he  said,  "  with  a 
note." 

"  Huh,"  said  the  boy.  "  They  was  six 
other  envelopes  on  the  table  when  I  come 
in  here.  Some  of  'em  ought  to  got  there  by 
now." 

Stone  only  said :  "  Some  day  you'll  make 
a  first-class  crook  and  we'll  have  column 
stories  about  you,  with  your  picture." 

The  boy  almost  blushed  at  this  prediction 
of  greatness,  but  Stone  did  not  notice  that, 
for  a  strange  voice  came  in  from  the  other 
room,  saying:  "I  tell  you  I've  got  to  see 
him."  Stone  locked  the  door  and  ran  out. 


The  Stolen  Story 

The  head  office-boy  was  shouting,  excit- 
edly, "  See  him — nuthin'  !  You'll  have  to 
wait  till  he's  trew  writin'." 

A  number  of  the  men,  hearing  the  loud 
voices,  were  coming  down  toward  the  gate. 

"  Give  him  this  note  then,  I  tell  you." 

"  Give  nuthin' — not  till  he's  trew  writin'." 

Now  another  stranger  came  in.  He  had 
been  waiting  in  the  hallway.  To  him  the 
first  young  man  turned  and  said,  "  He's  in 
here,  Munson,  but  they  won't  bring  him  out, 
and  they  won't  give  him  the  note." 

"  Here,  let  me  take  it,"  said  Munson,  the 
new  arrival. 

Jones,  the  reporter,  who  had  been  stand- 
ing by  the  gate  with  his  back  toward  it,  as 
if  not  listening,  now  turned  around. 

But  Munson,  looking  past  Jones,  ex- 
claimed, dramatically,  "  Mr.  Stone,  give  this 
to  Woods  if  you  dare!  " 

Stone,  who  had  been  passing  by,  appar- 
ently oblivious,  stopped  and  looked  at  Mun- 
son a  moment.  "Young  man,"  he  said, 
"what  is  the  occasion  for  so  much  emo- 
tion? Here,  boy,  take  that  note  to  Mr. 
Woods." 

52 


The  Stolen  Story 

The  boy  looked  at  Mr.  Stone. 

"  Hurry,"  said  the  editor.  "  This  person 
seems  to  be  impatient." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  dazedly,  and 
carried  the  envelope  over  to  Woods,  who 
nodded  impatiently,  stuck  the  thing  hastily 
in  his  pocket  with  his  left  hand,  and  with  his 
right  kept  on  writing. 

"  He  seems  to  be  occupied,"  Jones  re- 
marked, affably.  "  But  he  will  be  at  leisure 
shortly.  You  see  it's  nearly  time  to  go  to 
press." 

But  Munson  cried,  "  Well,  then,  I'll  go  in 
and  speak  to  him." 

Jones  stood  by  the  gate.  "  Sorry,  but  it's 
against  the  rules  of  the  office."  Stone,  be- 
hind him,  was  filling  a  pipe  and  remarked, 
aloud :  "  This  is  one  place  where  an  Earth 
reporter  cannot  go,"  which  made  some  of 
the  others  laugh.  Nearly  the  whole  staff 
had  moved  down  by  the  gate  now. 

Munson  looked  at  them.  He  did  not 
know  what  tack  to  take,  and  time  was  flying. 
He  tried  being  civil.  "  But,  see  here,  gen- 
tlemen," he  said,  earnestly,  "  I've  simply  got 
to  see  Woods  before  we  go  to  press."  He 
53 


The  Stolen  Story 

looked  up  at  the  office  clock.  "  We  go  to 
press  in  about  twenty-five  minutes." 

"  Well,  there  he  is,  look  at  him,"  put  in 
Jones. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  it  suddenly  oc- 
curred to  Munson  to  call  to  Billy  Woods. 
"  Oh,  Woods!  "  he  shouted  in  a  loud  voice, 
"  Billy  Woods,  come  here  a  minute." 

Woods  shook  his  head,  but  no  one  heard 
him  call  back,  "  Just  a  second,"  for  Mr.  Man- 
ning now  came  down  the  room,  saying,  with 
some  heat: 

"  See  here,  Jones,  tell  that  young  man  to 
stop  making  a  disturbance  in  this  office ; " 
which  Jones  began  to  do,  assisted  by  several 
others,  in  loud  tones. 

Meanwhile,  Billy,  reaching  the  end  of  the 
page,  made  a  double  X  mark  to  show  that 
it  was  the  end  of  the  story,  and  said,  "  Here, 
boy,"  to  the  one  that  had  brought  him  the 
note,  "  take  this  up  to  the  desk,"  and  walked 
down  to  the  gate,  saying:  "Well,  well, 
what's  all  this  rumpus  about.  Who  wants 

me "  just  in  time  to  hear  Munson's  high 

voice,  almost  screaming  above  the  others: 

"  Billy  Woods,  I  was  sent  to  ask  you  why 

54 


The  Stolen  Story 

you  joined  our  staff  this  morning,  and 
then  sneaked  over  here  with  our  beat  to- 
night! What  have  you  got  to  say  for  your- 
self? " 

And  now,  like  fools,  every  one  shut  up 
and  turned  to  look  at  Billy  Woods.  They 
all  stood  there  in  silence  and  watched  him 
as  the  thing  came  over  him. 

He  stopped  short  before  reaching  the  gate, 
and  opened  his  mouth.  First,  a  look  of  child- 
ish dread  came  over  his  face.  He  looked  at 
Munson.  Then  he  looked  around  at  the 
staff.  Then  he  turned  his  face  away  and  sat 
down  at  the  nearest  desk.  He  was  a  born 
reporter,  and  he  had  grasped  the  whole  situ- 
ation from  beginning  to  end. 

And  just  then  the  floor  began  to  shake 
and  there  came  up  the  deep,  heavy  rum- 
bling of  the  mighty  presses  from  far  below. 
The  story  was  a  beat  now. 

Munson  knew  that  sound,  and  looked  up 
at  the  clock  in  alarm. 

Stone  was  puffing  his  pipe  contentedly. 
"  Twenty  minutes  slow  you'll  find." 

Then  Munson  knew  that  his  paper  was 
beaten,  and  that  the  best  it  could  do  was  to 
55 


The  Stolen  Story 

lift  a  stick  or  two  of  the  story  from  The  Day 
for  the  later  editions.  This  would  be  done 
immediately  and  without  him.  So  he  de- 
cided to  stay  here  a  minute  and  say  some- 
thing. He  was  wrought  up. 

He  slapped  the  gate-post  with  his  hand. 
"  This  is  the  lowest  trick  ever  perpetrated  in 
this  city,"  he  began. 

"Yes?"  said  Stone,  who  had  his  hands 
in  his  pockets. 

"  And  I'd  like  to  state  that  the  man  that 
would  do  such  a  thing " 

"  Say,"  put  in  Haskill,  "  you  needn't  heap 
any  abuse  on  Billy  Woods.  We  aren't  in 
the  humor  to  hear  it.  He  came  up  here 
from  force  of  habit,  and  you're  in  hard 
luck ;  that's  all.  He  forgot  that  he  had  been 
inveigled  into  joining  your  dirty  sheet,  until 
you  reminded  him  of  it  just  now.  Didn't 
you,  Billy?" 

Woods  made  no  reply.  It  would  have 
been  a  good  thing  altogether  if  he  could  have 
fallen  over  in  a  dramatic  faint  at  this  point, 
or,  say,  when  the  presses  began.  But  he  did 
not  know  how.  So  he  only  sat  there  behind 
the  others,  with  his  glasses  sliding  down,  lis- 
56 


The  Stolen  Story 

tening  to  everything  and  holding  tight  to 
the  desk. 

Munson  had  laughed  scornfully  at  Has- 
kill's  explanation.  "  Who  do  you  think  will 
believe  that  fairy  story?  "  he  asked.  "  Oh," 
he  went  on,  "  you  have  beaten  us  all  right  on 
this  story — we  acknowledge  that." 

Stone  blew  smoke.  "  Good  of  you,"  he 
said. 

"  But  we'll  have  a  story  to-morrow  that 
you  won't  have,  that  you  won't  care  to  print." 

"  It  won't  be  the  first  time,"  replied  Stone, 
who  then  remembered  something  and  left 
the  gate  for  the  private  office. 

Munson  was  going  on,  "  It'll  be  a  three- 
column  expose  of  The  Day's  '  upright  jour- 
nalistic methods,'  describing  this  whole  trai- 
torous performance.  We  can  get  affidavits 
that  we  gave  that  man  Woods " 

Billy  Woods's  foot  tapped  on  the  floor  and 
at  the  same  time  Haskill  interrupted:  "In 
the  first  place,  no  one  would  believe  Woods 
was  on  your  staff  for  ten  minutes  to-day;  no 
one  believes  you,  you  know;  and  besides, 
how  did  you  people  get  that  tip  anyway,  I'd 
like  to  know " 

"As  for  affidavits,"  put  in  Sampson, 
57 


The  Stolen  Story 

the  old  reporter,  "  a  few  striking  ones 
might  be  secured  about  other  things  you've 
been  giving  Woods;  for  instance,  on  that 
trip  up  the  bay  Sunday  night — you  ought  to 
remember  that,  Munson." 

"  Then,  too,  we  might  make  pretty  good 
reading  out  of  this  interesting  young  man," 
this  from  Stone,  who  was  leading  in  young 
Tommy  Donovan  by  the  arm.  "  Did  you 
ever  see  this  lad  before?  Yes,  they  seem  to 
recognize  each  other.  And  by  the  way,  did 
you  ever  see  handwriting  like  this?  "  He 
held  up  the  envelope.  "  Ah,  I  wouldn't 
make  a  very  big  scare  head  about  this  inter- 
esting evening  if  I  were  you.  Oh,  no,  don't 
swear  at  this  little  boy.  What's  that — break 
his  neck?  Well,  if  you  must,  why,  we'll 
have  to  cover  the  story  at  the  police  station 
and  make  a  front  page  spread  of  it,  and  tell 
all  we  know  about  the  motives.  What,  are 
you  going  so  soon?  Well,  good-night.  The 
cool  air  will  do  you  good." 

Meanwhile,  the  others  were  getting  ready 
to  leave. 

"  Come,  Woods,"  said  Stone,  "  put  on 
your  coat." 

58 


The  Stolen  Story 

Billy  arose  slowly.  Haskill,  who  was 
fussing  around  him  like  a  man  that  wants  to 
be  useful  in  a  nursery  and  doesn't  know  how, 
said,  "  What  he  needs  is  a  lot  of  good,  nour- 
ishing food.  Then  I'll  take  him  home  to  bed 
with  me  and  to-morrow  I'll  put  him  in  a 
Turkish  bath.  He  better  stay  there  all  day, 
too,  and  not  come  down  to  work  at  all  to- 
morrow. I  suppose  the  office  can  let  him 
have  a  day  off.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr. 
Manning?  " 

They  were  helping  Billy  put  on  his  coat. 
He  looked  up,  timidly.  "  What  do  you 
mean?  "  he  said. 

"  Better  ask  Mr.  Manning,"  said  Haskill, 
smiling. 

"  Come  on,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mr.  Man- 
ning, starting  for  the  stairs,  "  we're  all  going 
to  have  some  supper  together." 


59 


The  New  Reporter 


The  New  Reporter 


day  a  cub  reporter  was  sent  to  cover 
a  meeting  of  an  East  Side  literary  club, 
which  was  to  debate  about  Arbitration  and 
its  effect  upon  international  peace.  But  he 
came  back  to  the  office  within  an  hour  look- 
ing disappointed. 

"  Where's  your  story?  "  asked  the  city 
editor. 

"  There  wasn't  any  story  to  write,"  re- 
plied the  new  reporter,  picking  up  a  news- 
paper; "  they  couldn't  agree  upon  the  word- 
ing of  the  subject,  and  they  got  to  arguing 
and  calling  names,  and  finally  the  meeting 
broke  up  in  a  free  fight;  so  I  came  back." 

The  city  editor  came  down  from  his  desk 
and  gazed  pitifully  upon  the  cub.  "  They 
were  to  have  debated  on  peace,"  he  said,  sor- 
rowfully, "  and  the  meeting  broke  up  in  a 
fight.  And  there  was  nothing  to  write! 
You  may  go."  That  is  a  story  they  tell  along 
63 


The  New  Reporter 

the  Row,  and  it  is  an  old  one.    It  is  of  an- 
other reporter  I  am  to  tell. 

This,  too,  is  old,  but  it  has  not  been  told 
before,  perhaps  because  it  is  not  a  story.  But 
I  believe  the  reason  is  that  those  who  know 
it  best  do  not  care  to  tell  about  it. 

My  cub  reporter  was  pacing  up  and  down 
before  a  comfortable-looking  house  on  the 
avenue,  trying  to  make  his  legs  take  him  up 
the  steps,  and  they  would  not  do  it. 

He  had  been  told  to  find  out  what  a  well- 
known  New  York  family  had  to  say  about 
its  son's  ejection  from  a  music-hall  the  night 
before  for  tossing  hats  and  slippers  at  a 
variety  actress  on  the  stage  from  a  box  where 
he  sat  with  his  arm  around  another  actress. 
The  new  reporter  had  been  walking  up  and 
down  before  the  house  for  ten  minutes. 

At  last,  looking  in  both  directions  to  make 
sure  no  one  he  knew  was  near,  he  took  a 
long  breath,  dashed  up  the  steps  and  rang 
the  bell. 

"  Is  Colonel  Richardson  at  home?  " 

"  No  sir,"  said  the  servant. 

"  Is — is  Mrs.  Richardson  at  home?  " 
64 


The  New  Reporter 

"  They  are  both  out,  sir/' 

"Thank  God!"  whispered  the  reporter, 
and  ran  down  the  steps  again,  two  at  a  time. 
That  was  poor  journalism. 

But  he  was  a  cub  reporter,  and  he  had 
much  to  learn  about  the  meaning  of  the  word 
News. 

The  night  before  he  had  had  another  les- 
son, a  different  sort  of  lesson. 

They  had  sent  him  over  on  the  East  Side 
to  find  out  about  the  drowning  of  a  ten-year- 
old  boy.  It  was  reported  on  the  police  sta- 
tion returns  as  possibly  a  suicide. 

The  night  was  hot  and  sticky  ("  as  humid 
as  a  wet  sponge,"  wrote  the  man  with  the 
weather  story),  and  the  East  Side  was  full 
of  midsummer-night  noises  and  awful 
smells.  Thin  children,  with  shrill  voices, 
were  playing  in  the  streets.  Some  of  these 
showed  him  the  way  up  the  dark  stairs  to  the 
flat  where  the  drowned  child  had  lived. 

"  He's  the  doctor,"  whispered  one  of  them. 

"  Ah,  come  on  down-stairs,"  called  up  an- 
other. 

The  door  was  open  and  the  neighbors  were 
65 


The  New  Reporter 

gathering  in.  Linton,  feeling  like  an  in- 
truder, went  in,  too.  But  they  did  not  con- 
sider his  presence  displeasing  at  all.  They 
seemed  to  feel  it  an  honor.  The  father  arose 
and  gave  the  reporter  a  chair,  and  the  mother 
began  telling  about  it  all  over  again  and  cried 
some  more.  The  neighbors  fanned  them- 
selves and  nodded  assent  to  all  the  mother 
said  about  the  dead  child's  virtues.  Occa- 
sionally they  stared  at  Linton.  The  old  man 
smoked  hard  and  wiped  perspiration  on  his 
sleeve. 

It  was  not  a  suicide — he  verified  this  from 
the  police  later — but  it  was  very  sad,  and  the 
new  reporter  was  sorry  about  it.  They 
seemed  grateful  for  his  sympathy,  and  asked 
if  he  wouldn't  like  to  see  the  body.  Linton 
said,  "  Oh,  no;  thank  you."  But  they 
wanted  to  show  him  some  attention  and  in- 
sisted upon  taking  him  into  the  room  where 
the  small,  thin  body  lay  all  alone,  with  the 
hair  still  wet  and  the  mouth  half  open,  show- 
ing two  big  childish  teeth.  The  other  chil- 
dren's yelling  voices  came  in  through  the 
window  from  the  street  below. 

The  new  reporter  had  seen  but  two  dead 
66 


The  New  Reporter 

persons  before  in  all  his  life;  and  he  went 
back  through  the  noisy,  hot,  foul-smelling 
streets,  thinking  of  the  mystery  of  death  and 
the  sadness  of  desolation.  Then  entering  the 
office,  which  seemed  so  thoughtlessly  full  of 
life  and  the  interests  of  the  living,  he  re- 
ported at  the  desk  of  the  night  city  editor. 

Stone,  the  night  city  editor,  was  reading 
copy,  but  twitched  his  ugly  pipe,  which 
meant,  "  Well,  what  did  you  get?  "  for  this 
man  did  not  believe  in  talking  when  he  could 
help  it. 

The  new  reporter  began  to  tell  all  about 
it.  He  thought  it  ought  to  make  a  pretty 
good  little  East  Side  pathetic  story — the 
genuine  unrestrained  grief  of  the  lowly;  the 
mother  crying;  the  father  smoking  and  not 
saying  much;  the  kind,  gossipy  neighbors, 
etc. 

Without  looking  up,  Mr.  Stone  asked, 
"  Suicide  or  not?  "  and  kept  on  running  his 
pencil  through  copy. 

"  No,"  the  new  reporter  replied,  "  he  just 
fell  in  off  the  string-piece  of  the  dock,  at  the 
foot  of  Rutgers  Street.  But  it  was  pretty  sad, 
I  thought.  They  told  me  what  a  fine  kid  he 
had  been,  and  how  high  he  stood  in  his  class 
67 


The  New  Reporter 

and  all  that,  and  they  took  me  in  and  showed 
me  the  body,  with  the  medal  he  had  won  at 
school  still  around  his  neck,  and  the  ribbon 
all  wet  and  faded.  He  was  to  have  spoken 
a  piece,  they  said,  next  Friday  at  the  school 
exercises.  He  had  been  rehearsing  only  an 
hour  before.  While  they  told  me,  the  other 
kids,  the  ones  he  used  to  play  with,  were 
calling  to  each  other  outside  in  the  street 

below,  and " 

The  night  city  editor  looked  annoyed. 
"  Never  mind,"  he  said,  and  turned  over  an- 
other sheet  of  copy. 

Linton  hesitated.  "  Well,  sha'n't  I  write 
anything?  "  he  asked. 

Mr.  Stone  finished  with  the  paragraph  he 
was  editing,  then  looked  up.  "  Hell,  no," 
he  said;  "  hundreds  of  'em  fall  in  every  sum- 
mer. But  a  suicide  at  ten  would  have  been 
good  news,  worth,  perhaps,  a  column;  for 
that  is  unusual.  You  see  the  distinction." 
So  did  the  cub  reporter  now. 

This  young  man  had  thought  that,  with 
a  college  and  university  training  and  some 
experience  at  amateur  scribbling,  he  ought 
68 


to  be  able  to  write  good  enough  reports  of 
things  for  a  newspaper.  Any  one  could  do 
that,  he  thought. 

It  was  a  perfectly  natural  mistake;  others 
have  made  it.  No  one  with  or  without  two 
academic  degrees  and  no  experience  could 
write  reports  of  things  good  enough  for  a 
newspaper  to  publish.  Not  even  William 
Shakespeare  would  know  what  to  get  or  how 
to  put  it  without  some  training  at  reporting. 
To  be  sure  he  might  get  better  things  and 
put  them  in  immortal  English,  but  his  copy 
would  not  "  get  by  the  desk."  For  this  thing 
reporting  is  a  business  involving  consider- 
able specialized  knowledge,  to  be  learned  by 
experiments  and  mistakes,  like  every  other 
job,  and  there's  considerable  toil  and  moil 
and  drudgery  at  the  bottom,  just  as  there  is 
at  the  bottom  of  any  other  business  or  pur- 
suit. So  young  Linton  was  bossed  around 
and  jumped  upon  and  made  to  feel  very  small 
and  stupid  and  in  the  way,  just  as  he  would 
have  been  in  a  law  office,  or  a  mercantile 
house,  or  at  the  bottom  of  any  other  place. 
But  he  wanted  to  be  bossed  and  banged 
around.  That  was  one  of  the  reasons  why  he 
had  gone  into  this  work. 
69 


The  New  Reporter 

It  was  so  much  better  than  dreamily  drink- 
ing beer  in  Germany  and  telling  himself  that 
he  was  a  sociologist.  It  had  been  a  pleasant, 
contemplative  existence  for  awhile,  and  he 
had  heard  some  interesting  theories,  but  he 
had  been  doing  the  student  thing  too  long; 
and  so  when  he  came  back  to  his  own  coun- 
try for  a  vacation  he  did  not  keep  up  the 
feeling  of  kindly  patronage  toward  the 
United  States  he  had  felt  coming  up  the  bay. 
The  good  American  yearning  to  go  and  do 
for  himself  had  come  upon  him.  He  decided 
that  he  was  sick  of  the  ease  and  inexactness 
of  the  scholar — sick,  too,  of  having  some 
one  else  pay  his  bills,  sick  of  leisurely  reading 
theories  about  man  as  a  unit.  He  wanted  to 
see  something  of  men  as  warm  human  be- 
ings, with  their  passions  and  pursuits,  their 
motives  and  their  ways  of  looking  at  things. 
He  could  not  have  chosen  a  better  field  for  it. 

"  Here,  Mr.  Linton,"  the  city  editor  would 
say,  "  this  man  died  this  afternoon.  See  if 
it's  true  that  he  drank  himself  to  death.  Run 
up  and  have  a  talk  with  the  family." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  Linton  would  reply,  and  then 
shudder  at  the  thought  of  how  nasty  the 
70 


The  New  Reporter 

crinkly  crape  was  going  to  feel  when  he 
yanked  it  out  of  the  way  in  order  to  jangle 
the  doorbell  and  ask  questions  of  red-eyed 
women. 

He  wondered  if  all  this  ever  bothered  the 
other  reporters,  many  of  whom  seemed  to 
be  very  much  the  same  sort  of  people  as  him- 
self and  his  friends.  But — except  when  they 
got  hold  of  a  "  beat,"  which  always  caused 
absurd  excitement  —  they  seemed  quite 
cheerful  and  businesslike  in  getting  and 
writing  their  news.  "  I  suppose  you  get 
used  to  it  in  time,"  he  said  to  one  of  these. 

"  Oh,  they  like  to  have  the  papers  print 
the  list  of  clubs  he  belonged  to,"  was  the 
reply. 

Down  along  the  East  River  water  front 
the  big,  brave  ships  from  far  away  foreign 
ports  rest  at  ease,  with  their  bowsprits 
slouching  out  half  way  across  South  Street. 
Quaint  figure-heads  are  on  their  bows,  and 
on  their  sterns  names  still  more  quaint  and 
full  of  soft  vowels  which  mean  something  in 
some  part  of  the  seven  seas ;  brigs  from  the 
West  Indies  and  barks  from  South  Africa; 


The  New  Reporter 

Nova  Scotia  schooners  and  full-rigged  clip- 
per ships  from  Calcutta  and  from  San  Fran- 
cisco by  way  of  the  Horn. 

Here  the  young  reporter  liked  to  prowl 
about  when  out  on  a  weather  story,  looking 
at  the  different  foreign  flags  and  at  the  odd 
foreign  cargoes  unloading  in  strangely- 
wrought  shipping  boxes  which  smelled  of 
spices,  and  wondering  about  the  voyage  over 
and  about  the  private  history  of  the  bare- 
footed, underfed  sailors  who  made  it.  The 
stevedores'  derricks  puffed  and  creaked,  and 
far  overhead  the  cars  on  the  bridge  rumbled 
on,  but  the  big  ships  seemed  calm  and  pa- 
tient, and  full  of  mystery,  as  if  they  knew  too 
many  wondrous  things  to  be  impressed  by 
anything  in  America.  But  all  this  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  the  weather  story,  or  how 
the  fog  was  affecting  the  shipping,  or  how 
much  behind  their  schedule  the  ferry-boats 
were  running,  or  whether  (by  good  fortune) 
there  had  been  any  collisions  in  the  river. 
That  was  what  he  was  down  there  for. 

Then,  too,  he  used  to  have  some  good 
times  when  his  assignment  took  him  over 
into  what  used  to  be  Greenwich;  along  old, 
72 


The  New  Reporter 

crooked,  narrow,  village-like  streets  running 
all  sorts  of  directions  and  crossing  each  other 
where  they  had  no  right  to ;  where  the  shops 
and  people  and  the  whole  atmosphere  still 
seemed  removed  and  village-like.  He  had  a 
lot  of  fun  looking  out  for  old  houses  with  lov- 
able doorways  and  fanlights  and  knockers, 
and  sometimes  good  white  Greek  columns. 
And  then,  up  along  East  Broadway,  which 
was  once  so  fashionable  and  is  now  so  for- 
lorn, with  dirty  cloakmakers  in  the  spacious 
drawing-rooms  and  signs  in  Hebrew  char- 
acters in  the  windows.  He  used  to  gaze  at 
them  as  he  walked  by  and  dream  about  the 
old  days  of  early  century  hospitality  there; 
the  queer  clothes  the  women  wore  and  the 
strong  punch  the  men  drank,  and  the  stilted 
conversation  they  both  liked,  instead  of 
planning  how  to  work  up  his  story,  and 
then  with  a  shock  would  discover  that  he 
had  passed  the  house  where  he  was  to  push 
in  and  ask  a  woman  if  it  was  true  that  her 
husband  had  run  away  with  another  man's 
wife ;  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  they  gen- 
erally talked  about  it. 

Not  that  all  his  assignments  were  dis- 
73 


The  New  Reporter 

agreeable.  There  was  the  bright,  windy  day 
he  was  sent  down  to  the  proving-grounds 
on  Sandy  Hook  to  write  about  the  new  dis- 
appearing gun-carriage  (which  covered  him 
and  the  rest  of  the  party  with  yellow-powder 
dust),  and  he  lunched  with  the  Secretary  of 
the  Navy,  who  was  very  jolly  and  gave  him 
a  half-column  interview.  There  was  Izi  Zim, 
the  pipe-maker,  up  on  Third  Avenue,  and 
the  Frenchman  on  Twenty-third  Street,  who 
taught  skirt-dancing;  and  there  was  his  good 
friend,  Garri-Boulu,  the  old  Hindoo  sailor, 
who  had  landed  on  one  of  the  big  Calcutta 
ships  suffering  with  beriberi,  and  was  now 
slowly  dying  in  the  Presbyterian  Hospital 
because  he  wouldn't  lose  caste  by  eating 
meat,  and  was  so  polite  that  he  cried  for  fear 
he  was  giving  the  young  doctors  too  much 
trouble.  It  took  him  into  odd  places,  this 
news-gathering,  and  made  him  meet  queer 
people,  and  it  was  a  fascinating  life  for  all  its 
disagreeableness,  and  it  was  never  monot- 
onous, for  it  was  never  alike  two  days  in  suc- 
cession. It  was  full  of  contrasts — almost 
dramatic  contrasts,  sometimes.  One  after- 
noon he  was  sent  to  cover  a  convention  of 
74 


The  New  Reporter 

spiritualists  who  wore  their  hair  long;  that 
evening,  a  meeting  of  the  Association  of 
Liquor  Dealers,  who  had  huge  black  mus- 
taches, and  the  next  day  he  was  one  of  a 
squad  of  men  under  an  old  experienced  re- 
porter up  across  the  Harlem  River  at  work- 
on  a  murder  "  mystery,"  smoking  cigars 
with  Central  Office  detectives  and  listening 
to  the  afternoon-paper  men,  who,  in  lieu  of 
real  news,  made  up  theories  for  one  edition 
which  they  promptly  tore  down  in  the  next. 
That  evening  found  him  within  the  sombre 
walls  of  the  New  York  Foundling  Hospital, 
up  on  Lexington  Avenue,  asking  questions 
ot  soft-voiced  sisters  and  talking  with  wise 
young  doctors  about  an  epidemic  of  measles 
which  was  killing  off  the  babies. 

He  liked  all  this.  He  thought  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  a  sociologist;  but  it  was  be- 
cause he  was  a  boy.  It  gave  him  a  thrill  to 
go  down  into  a  cellar  after  murder-clews 
with  a  detective,  just  as  it  would  any  other 
full-blooded  male.  He  was  becoming  good 
friends  with  some  of  these  sleuths — most  of 
whom,  by  the  way,  were  not  at  all  sleuth-like 
in  appearance,  and  went  about  their  day's 
75 


The  New  Reporter 

work  in  very  much  the  same  matter-of-fact 
way  as  reporters  and  the  rest  of  the  town. 

Indeed,  if  he  could  only  shed  some  of  his 
sensibilities  when  assignments  involved  talk- 
ing to  people  about  things  they  did  not  want 
to  talk  about,  he  thought  he  could  be  very 
happy  in  this  wild,  free,  unconventional  life, 
working  when  the  rest  of  the  town  were 
asleep  and  eating  wherever  his  work  hap- 
pened to  bring  him.  But,  ashamed  of  it  as 
he  was,  his  pulse  beat  faster  every  time  he 
was  called  up  to  the  desk.  "  Now  what  are 
they  going  to  make  me  do?  "  he  would  ask 
himself.  Of  course,  he  never  told  anybody, 
but  even  when  it  was  only  to  run  down  to 
Wall  Street  and  try  to  find  out  from  some  big 
gun  if  that  rumor  about  the  Union  Pacific 
was  true,  he  dreaded  the  task.  He  knew  he 
would  be  kept  waiting  in  a  long  line  of  peo- 
ple, and  he  knew  he  would  get  angry  if  he 
found  that  he  was  looked  down  upon  for 
being  a  reporter  by  cocky  clerks  of  Wall 
Street,  most  of  whom  he  considered  unre- 
fined and  so  pitifully  ignorant — for  what  did 
they  know  of  Aryan  Roots  or  The  Congestion 
of  Labor!  And  when  his  turn  came  he  would 
76 


The  New  Reporter 

hate  to  walk  into  the  private  office  and  bother 
a  busy  man  about  something  which  seemed 
so  eminently  none  of  his  or  his  paper's  busi- 
ness, that  he  wondered  why  this  thought 
never  happened  to  occur  to  the  city  editor. 
The  busy  man  would  look  up  scowling,  and 
growl "  I've  nothing  to  say,"  which  hurt,  and 
then  it  would  be  the  reporter's  business  to 
try  to  make  him  say  something,  and,  if  un- 
successful, he  would  be  scowled  at  again 
when  he  returned  to  the  office,  and  that  hurt 
still  more. 

When,  however,  he  did  succeed  in  run- 
ning down  all  the  facts,  there  was  a  satis- 
faction in  hurrying  back  to  the  office  with 
them  and  marching  up  to  the  desk  and  tell- 
ing them  in  a  few  quick  sentences,  and  hear- 
ing the  editor  say,  "  That's  good — write  it." 

Sometimes  it  turned  out  to  be  a  good  story 
and  they  let  him  make  several  sticks  of  it; 
then  the  fine  glow  of  creation  that  followed 
the  quick  writing  seemed  worth  all  kinds  of 
trouble,  and  he  ran  light-hearted  out  to  din- 
ner at  some  queer,  newspaper-man's  joint, 
mingling  with  the  eager,  hurrying  throng  on 
the  way,  and  then  with  the  clanging  of  cable- 
77 


The  New  Reporter 

cars  in  his  ears  and  the  shrill  newsboys'  cries 
and  all  the  concentrated  roar  of  the  metrop- 
olis, he  felt  that  he,  too,  was  part  of  it  all  and 
that  this  was  living,  and  he  was  a  legitimate 
factor  in  the  great  economic  machine;  no 
longer  an  incumbrance  but  a  wage-earner  in 
the  huge,  struggling,  pushing,  shrieking 
thing  they  call  the  world,  which  is  sordid  and 
selfish  but  very  interesting,  and  where  he 
was  jostled  up  against  ever  so  many  other 
workers,  and  would  have  been  thrown  down 
and  trodden  under  foot  if  not  able  to  cope 
with  them.  But  he  could  cope  with  them  and 
keep  his  head  above,  and  was  earning  fifteen 
dollars  a  week,  and  lived  in  a  hall-bedroom, 
top  floor,  back,  with  cats  outside  when  he 
wanted  to  go  to  sleep  at  night,  and  a  young 
actor  in  the  next  room  who  practised  his 
lines  in  a  would-be  English  accent,  when 
Linton  did  not  want  to  wake  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

And  as  for  the  uncle  who  had  offered  him 
a  place  in  his  office,  not  far  from  Park  Row, 
and  who  complacently  took  it  for  granted 
that  a  chance  for  his  own  kind  of  success 
ought  to  be  respectfully  worshipped  by  Lin- 
78 


The  New  Reporter 

ton  or  any  other  young  man ;  and  as  for  his 
aunt,  who  had  said,  "  Oh,  but  to  be  a  report- 
er is  so  beneath  you,"  all  that  had  only  made 
him  more  anxious  to  try  it;  and  now  that 
their  only  dinner  invitations  were  the  "  We'll 
be  glad  to  have  you  come  any  time  "  sort,  he 
was  all  the  more  determined  to  stick  to  re- 
porting. He  had  no  respect  at  all,  he  wished 
them  to  know,  for  the  opinion  of  those  who 
respected  him  less  for  doing  the  work  he  had 
chosen  to  do;  and  he  enjoyed  the  situation. 
He  found  himself  pitying  their  nice  little 
New  York  sons,  with  the  well-beaten,  per- 
fectly proper  path  of  life  they  would  have  to 
follow  after  college,  with  its  office  at  nine 
o'clock,  home  at  six,  dress  for  dinner,  then, 
nice  little  New  York  girls  to  see  in  the  even- 
ing. And  the  same  set  of  New  York  people 
to  spend  the  summer  with,  and  always  when 
they  went  abroad  the  same  hotels  that  other 
nice  New  Yorkers  go  to,  and  thus  the 
same  thing  over  and  over  and1  over  in  ex- 
actly the  same  way  as  ever  so  many  other 
nice  little  dapper  New  Yorkers — unless,  in- 
deed, they  had  blood  enough  in  them  to 
sicken  of  it,  in  which  case  they  would  prob- 
79 


The  New  Reporter 

ably  get  bad  for  awhile,  and  make  their 
mother  cry  at  night  and  their  father  wonder 
at  what  was  not  at  all  wonderful.  Then,  later 
on,  after  they  had  been  put  up  for  certain 
clubs  by  papa's  partner  and  seconded  by 
Uncle  John,  who  knew  everybody,  they 
would  marry  nice  little  New  York  girls  who 
pronounce  certain  woids  like  nobody  else  in 
the  woild — nice,  well-dressed,  little  Amer- 
ican products — approved  by  mamma  (only, 
he  doubted  that),  and,  by  and  by,  get  a  house 
as  near  as  possible  to  the  houses  of  other 
wealthier  New  Yorkers,  and  part  of  a  box  at 
the  opera  perhaps — with  their  names  en- 
graved on  the  silver  door-plate — and  be 
prominent  in  church-work,  possibly,  and 
finally  die  respectable,  and  the  club  flag 
would  be  put  at  half-mast,  and  some  reporter 
would  have  a  half-column  "  obit "  to  write. 
"Uhh,"  Linton  shuddered,  "how  do  they 
stand  such  a  life."  He  thought  he  would  like 
to  be  a  satirist,  if  it  weren't  better  to  be  a 
sociologist. 

They  had  given  him  the  Tombs  Police 
Court  now  as  a  regular  department. 
80 


The  New  Reporter 

Usually  they  gave  him  a  night  assign- 
ment or  two  as  well.  So  he  spent  his  days 
in  jail  from  nine  until  four,  and  his  evenings 
in  whatever  part  of  Manhattan  or  Staten  or 
Long  Islands  or  of  the  wilds  of  the  Jersey 
suburbs  the  editor  decreed.  As  a  rule,  his 
night  assignments  did  not  amount  to  much 
in  type.  They  were  to  give  the  cub  reporter 
exercise  and  experience  in  approaching  peo- 
ple and  seeking  news.  Sometimes  a  five-line 
story,  which  most  of  you  did  not  even  see — 
and  Linton  himself  had  trouble  to  find — 
would  cost  five  hours'  work  and  as  many 
dollars  in  railroad  and  carriage  fares,  not  to 
speak  of  sensibilities  and  fatigue  in  mind  and 
body.  More  often  the  young  reporter 
looked  through  and  through  the  paper,  let- 
ting his  coffee  get  cold,  to  find  nothing 
printed  at  all. 

The  Tombs  was  horrible,  but  at  first  it 
was  also  interesting  because  it  satisfied  the 
natural  morbid  curiosity  that  goes  with  a 
number  of  better  tastes  in  every  human  be- 
ing. But  very  soon  this  was  more  than  sat- 
isfied, it  was  glutted,  and  he  found  he  could 
not  digest  it  all,  and  the  Tombs  became  hor- 
81 


The  New  Reporter 

rible  without  being  at  all  interesting — so  hor- 
rible indeed  that  sometimes  after  he  got  into 
bed,  if  he  had  worked  too  hard  or  smoked 
too  much,  some  of  the  faces  and  facts  he  had 
met  during  the  day  would  not  keep  out  of 
the  way  long  enough  for  him  to  get  to  sleep, 
and  he  had  to  sleep  because  he  was  obliged 
to  begin  work  again  at  nine  o'clock  in  the 
morning. 

He  had  studied  sociology  and  he  had 
travelled  a  little,  and  so  he  had  supposed  he 
knew  about  how  bad  human  nature  could 
get;  but  it  is  one  thing  to  read  in  big  books, 
by  a  comfortable  study-table,  with  a  pipe  in 
your  mouth,  about  degeneracy  and  crime 
and  the  per  cent,  of  criminals,  and  quite  an- 
other to  be  daily  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  scum  of  humanity  and  be  obliged  to 
mingle  with  it  and  ask  questions  and  have 
it  turn  its  eyes  upon  you,  and  let  you  see  in- 
side; worst  of  all,  to  realize  that  these  are 
fellow  human  beings,  and  that  there  is  very 
little  to  be  done  about  it. 

One  day  a  big,  burly  policeman  was  shov- 
ing an  aged,  bellowing  female  into  the  pen. 
She  had  been  sentenced  to  ten  days  on  the 
82 


The  New  Reporter 

Island.  Linton  got  red  in  the  face  and  ran 
behind  the  railing.  "  Let  up  on  that,  of- 
ficer," he  exclaimed.  "  It  isn't  necessary  to 
handle  them  so  roughly." 

The  policeman  grinned.  "  Young  feller, 
you  go  and  sit  down.  I  know  my  business; 
you  go  tend  to  yours.  This  old  lady's  drunk. 
Let's  see  you  handle  her." 

Linton  could  only  say,  "  Oh,  shut  up," 
boyishly,  but  he  stepped  up  to  the  Justice, 
who  was  idle  just  then,  to  see  what  could  be 
done  about  it.  The  Justice  seemed  a  pretty 
decent  fellow,  but  he  only  shook  his  head 
and  smiled  at  the  young  reporter.  "  She 
only  cries  because  she's  a  woman,"  he  said, 
re-dipping  his  pen.  "  She  knows  the 
Island's  the  best  place  for  her.  She'd  freeze 
on  the  streets  this  weather." 

So,  after  awhile  he  found  himself  becom- 
ing accustomed  to  it.  He  was  powerless  to 
prevent  what  he  saw,  so  why  let  it  get  on  his 
nerves?  It  was  his  business  to  watch  all  this, 
so,  like  a  doctor,  he  was  learning  to  observe 
suffering  and  disease  from  a  purely  profes- 
sional point  of  view.  Soon  he  was  abl,e  to 
drum  listlessly  on  the  reporters'  table  with 
83 


The  New  Reporter 

his  feet  cocked  up,  while  screaming  children 
were  being  led  away  to  the  Gerry  Society. 

Away  up-town,  far  from  the  noise  of 
Newspaper  Row,  far  up,  nearly  to  the  end  of 
the  green  park,  where  the  streets  are  clean 
and  asphalted,  and  so  quiet  that  horses'  feet 
make  a  pleasant  patter,  where  there  is  bright 
blue  sky  and  sunshine  and  open,  clear  spa- 
ciousness, with  clean-capped  nurse-maids 
wheeling  baby-carriages  along  by  the  park- 
wall,  where  the  sparrows  twitter — away  up 
there  lived  a  girl  that  Linton  liked  to  talk  to 
when  he  was  thinking  of  giving  up  human 
nature. 

She  didn't  know  much  about  human  nat- 
ure, but  she  had  a  gentle  voice  and  believed 
in  everybody,  and  some  day  she  was  to  be  a 
lovely  woman.  Linton  could  tell  that,  and 
it  helped  a  good  deal  to  know  that  there  were 
people  like  this  in  New  York.  It  helped  him 
to  keep  his  respect  for  things  respectable ;  it 
helped  him  to  believe  in  a  good  God  and 
fairly  good  people,  and  nice,  clean  sunniness 
somewhere. 

She4  did  not  know  she  was  to  be  a  lovely 
woman  nor  that  she  helped  anybody.  She 
84 


The  New  Reporter 

had  an  idea  that  she  was  a  pretty  bad  lot, 
and  warned  him  once  that  he  really  oughtn't 
to  believe  in  her,  because  she  was  very  insin- 
cere. At  that  he  laughed  a  little,  which  hurt 
her  feelings;  and  then  he  was  so  sorry,  and 
told  her  so. 

She  had  known  him  at  college  and  had  a 
high  opinion  of  his  abilities.  She  thought 
him  very  plucky  and  independent  to  go  into 
newspaper-work  against  everybody's  advice, 
and  she  would  have  liked  it  if  he  talked  more 
about  himself,  which  most  of  the  men  she 
knew  did  too  much. 

Linton  knew  that  most  young  men  talked 
about  themselves  too  much.  But  it  wasn't 
altogether  from  a  dread  of  self-ridicule  that 
he  excluded  the  topic  of  himself  and  his 
work.  It  was  good  to  see  what  life  looked 
like  to  this  girl.  It  was  so  different  from  the 
way  his  work  sometimes  made  it  look.  She 
went  to  teas  and  dances  and  did  the  usual 
girl-things;  probably  she  shopped,  too,  and 
doubtless  glanced  in  that  quick  way  at  other 
girls  to  see  how  they  were  dressed,  and  she 
said  "  perfectly  lovely  "  sometimes,  but  he 
did  not  object  to  that  in  her.  It  all  seemed 
85 


The  New  Reporter 

so  sunny  and  right  and  normal,  and  it  was 
grateful  and  soothing  to  hear  her  tell  how 
hard  she  worked  all  morning  at  her  paint- 
ing, which  he  took  as  seriously  as  she 
wanted  him  to.  Only  she  wished  he 
wouldn't  make  her  forget  and  talk  so  much 
about  herself;  she  thought  it  must  bore  him 
a  good  deal.  It  did  not  bore  him.  And  after 
he  left  she  sometimes  wondered  what  he  must 
think  of  her.  He  thought  well  of  her. 

But  it  was  such  a  contrast,  listening  to  this 
gentle-voiced  girl,  who  believed  in  him,  to 
mingling  and  talking  with  the  sorts  and  con- 
ditions of  humanity  he  met  in  his  work,  who 
hated  him,  that  it  somehow  seemed  wrong 
to  have  been  in  her  presence  and  to  touch 
her  hand  when  he  said  good-by.  Then  the 
L  road  plunged  him  into  the  dark  vortex  of 
the  metropolis  once  more,  and  soon  he  was 
out  upon  the  busy,  crowded  streets  again, 
after  more  of  the  stuff  called  news,  for  New 
Yorkers  to  devour  and  complain  about  with 
their  breakfast.  ...  Or  else  this  was 
wrong. 

* 

He  had  been  at  it  long  enough  now,  he 
86 


The  New  Reporter 

thought,  to  be  adjusted.  He  told  himself 
that  news  was  a  commodity  and  that  there 
was  just  as  much  dignity  in  the  getting, 
handling,  selling  of  it  as  of  woollens  or  pro- 
fessional opinion  or  any  other  article  of  mer- 
chandise. 

At  least  it  was  so  on  a  paper  like  The  Day, 
which  was  neither  prurient  nor  prudish,  but 
clean  and  clever,  with  a  staff  of  reporters 
made  up  of  alert,  self-respecting  young 
Americans,  for  the  most  part  of  good  educa- 
tion and  some  breeding,  who  did  not  find  it 
necessary  to  lie  or  get  themselves  or  others 
drunk  in  order  to  obtain  news,  which  they 
wrote  in  very  good  English. 

To  be  sure  there  were  unpleasant  features 
in  worming  out  news,  but  so  also  were  there 
in  running  about  in  Wall  Street  for  a  bank 
and  being  patronized  by  arrogant  cashiers, 
or  getting  up  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning 
and  riding  on  the  back  of  an  ambulance,  or 
serving  papers  for  a  small  firm  of  toadying 
young  lawyers,  as  he  knew  from  his  class- 
mates. And  there  was  variety  in  his  dis- 
agreeableness  and  some  artistic  satisfaction. 

In  business  relations,  he  argued,  one 
87 


The  New  Reporter 

should  not  expect  the  same  courtesy  to  pre- 
vail as  in  social  intercourse.  Business  was 
a  struggle,  it  involved  straining  and  match- 
ing one's  talents  against  someone  else's;  and 
that  was  where  the  fun  came  in.  A  foot-ball 
player  did  not  lose  respect,  or  self-respect, 
by  not  stopping  to  beg  pardon  every  time 
he  bumped  into  an  opponent;  he  was  play- 
ing foot-ball.  Indeed  they  were  quite  like 
great  games,  these  various  pursuits  in  active 
life,  and  he  was  in  one  of  them,  perhaps  the 
most  active  of  the  lot.  He  was  sorry  for  all 
who  were  in  none.  He  had  had  his  taste  of 
lazily  watching  and  criticising  from  the 
grand  stand ;  and  he  did  not  want  any  more 
of  that.  He  wanted  to  work  and  sweat  and 
be  alive.  .  .  . 

The  city  editor  said:  "  Linton,  did  you 
see  this  divorce  story  in  the  afternoon  pa- 
pers? Go  look  up  that  lawyer,  and  get  all 
you  can  out  of  him." 

The  clipping  was  a  despatch  from  Geor- 
gia, stating,  in  a  paragraph,  that  a  certain 
young  woman  there  had  filed  suit  for  di- 
vorce. Her  husband  was  a  well-known  New 
Yorker,  and  so  it  was  news  for  New  York 
88 


The  New  Reporter 

papers,  and  worth  more  than  the  few  facts 
given  in  the  Georgia  end  of  it. 

It  wasn't  very  pleasant,  this  kind  of  an  as- 
signment; he  would  prefer  another,  but  he 
did  not  allow  himself  to  expend  emotion  over 
it,  as  formerly.  He  told  himself  that  he 
could  do  anything  now. 

It  was  the  press's  function,  he  argued,  to 
hold  up  the  punishment  of  publicity  before 
those  who  were  regardless  of  the  marriage 
tie.  The  family  is  the  unit  of  the  state — he 
had  not  forgotten  his  sociology — and  with- 
out the  family  the  whole  social  fabric  would 
go  to  smash.  He  should  do  his  part  toward 
holding  together  the  social  fabric. 

A  young  law-student  clerk  looked  up 
when  Linton  asked  for  Mr.  Tarry,  and  de- 
manded, "  What  name  shall  I  say?  " 

"  Tell  Mr.  Tarry,"  said  Linton,  "  that  a 
reporter  is  here  from  The  Day,  and  ask  if  he 
cares  to  see  me." 

The  young  law-student  said:  "What  do 
you  want  to  see  him  about?  " 

"  My  business  is  with  your  employer." 
said  Linton,  who  was  learning  to  deal  with 
all  sorts  of  people. 

89 


The  New  Reporter 

The  lawyer  sent  out  word  to  come  in,  and 
then,  without  looking  up,  kept  the  reporter 
standing  before  him  for  a  minute,  which  was 
intended  to  be  impressive,  until,  still  scratch- 
ing with  his  pen,  he  emitted  a  disagreeable 
"  Well,  sir?  " 

The  reporter  bowed  low  in  mock  defer- 
ence. "  The  Day"  he  said,  "  wants  to  know 
if  you  have  anything  to  add  to  that." 

The  lawyer  read  it  through  and  then 
scowled  at  the  reporter,  who  looked  blandly 
back  at  him. 

He  was  one  of  those  self-important  little 
lawyers  with  a  feeble  constitution  and  a  high 
voice.  The  reporter  did  not  quail  before  his 
glance,  as  did  his  office-clerks. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  in  a  crackly  voice,  "  you 
took  it  for  granted  that  you  could  come  in 
here  and  make  me  talk  about  this  strictly 
private — this  very  delicate  affair,  didn't  you? 
You  want  to  write  a  sensational  article  with 
big  head-lines,  don't  you?" 

Linton,  who  was  bigger  and  healthier, 

looked  down  at  the  little  man  and  smiled 

urbanely.      "No."    he    said,    thoughtfully. 

"  No,  you're  mistaken.    I  didn't  take  any- 

90 


The  New  Reporter 

thing  for  granted.  If  you  didn't  want  to  see 
me,  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  say  so.  It  would 
not  have  made  the  slightest  difference  to  me, 
I  assure  you.  I  am  not  in  the  least  interested 
in  this  thing;  in  fact,  it  is  rather  offensive  to 
me.  But,  you  see,  The  Day  wants  to  know, 
for  this  happens  to  be  news,  and  news  which 
some  people  would  profit  by  reading."  The 
lawyer  looked  at  him;  the  reporter  looked 
back;  then  went  on,  wondering  why  the  lit- 
tle lawyer  did  not  terminate  the  interview. 
"  So  I  sent  in  word  that  there  was  a  reporter 
here  and  asked  if  you  cared  to  talk  to  me; 
not  that  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,  because  I 
don't.  Now,  if  you  want  to  put  The  Day 
straight  about  this  thing,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  what  you  have  to  say,  and  your  client 
will  be  represented  fairly.  But  please  to 
bear  in  mind  that  you  aren't  doing  me  a  favor 
in  talking  to  me,  and  that  I  don't  care  very 
much  either  way." 

Then  the  little  lawyer  surprised  Linton. 
He  jumped  down  from  his  dignity  and 
talked.  He  talked  amiably  enough ;  he  said 
nothing  he  ought  not  to  have  said,  but  Lin- 
ton  got  five  sticks  out  of  it  (a  half  column) 


The  New  Reporter 

and  told  himself  he  was  upholding  the  social 
fabric. 

After  he  had  written  and  filed  his  story, 
he  told  Billy  Woods,  The  Day's  star  man, 
about  it.  Woods  despised  cub  reporters  the- 
oretically, but  he  was  always  kind  to  those 
who  came  to  him  for  advice. 

"  There's  a  great  deal  in  throwing  out  a 
good  bluff,  isn't  there?  "  said  Linton. 

"  Yes,"  said  Woods,  "  only  that  was  not 
the  reason  you  bagged  that  fellow." 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"  The  reason  he  didn't  turn  you  down  was 
that  he  wanted  the  advertising  that  would 
come  from  having  his  name  in  the  paper  as 
the  lawyer  to  a  prominent  family,"  said  Billy 
Woods,  who  knew  his  job. 

The  younger  man  laughed,  and  said 
"That's  so." 

It  is  not  very  pleasant  to  be  interviewing 
people  about  divorces,  especially  when  you 
know  perfectly  well  that  the  newspaper's 
motive  is  not  so  much  to  uphold  the  unit  of 
government  as  to  supply  reading-matter  that 
will  sell.  "  Oh,  well,  all  this  is  good  experi- 
ence," he  said  to  himself.  You  see  he  was  a 
sociologist,  and  he  was  in  this  thing  to  get 
92 


The  New  Reporter 

experience  of  men  and  motives,  and  he  was 
getting  it. 

He  was  getting  more  than  he  had  bar- 
gained for.  Sometimes  it  was  hard  to  realize 
that  it  was  himself  going  about  doing  these 
things,  son  of  so-and-so  and  grandson  of  so- 
and-so.  Whether  it  was  snobbish  or  not,  it 
did  seem  very  odd  that  he  was  the  one,  and 
sometimes  he  had  a  longing  to  break  away 
from  it  all  and  never  look  at  a  newspaper 
again.  "  But  it  is  not  I  doing  all  this,"  he 
told  himself;  "  it's  a  newspaper  reporter. 
I'm  playing  the  part  of  a  newspaper  reporter 
for  the  experience.  It's  a  very  instructive 
experience." 

He  had  an  earnest  sociological  friend, 
who,  to  learn  some  truth  at  first-hand,  had 
worked  his  way  across  the  country  as  a  day- 
laborer,  doing  everything  that  came  in  his 
way,  from  cleaning  cuspidors  to  binding 
wheat.  For  a  similar  motive,  Linton  told 
himself,  he  too  was  digging  out  and 
gathering  together  more  or  less  interest- 
ing truths  about  men  and  their  wives,  from 
lawyers  and  others  who  wanted  adver- 
tising. 

All  the  same  he  kept  away  from  the  neigh- 
93 


The  New  Reporter 

borhood  of  the  park  the  next  day,  which  was 
his  day  off,  and  for  several  more  days.  He 
told  himself  that  it  was  because  it  was  so 
hard  to  come  down  again.  But  when  he  did 
go  once  more  he  began  to  talk  about  him- 
self and  his  work. 

She  seemed  pleased  at  the  opportunity  to 
return  a  little  sympathy. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  missing  the  point  en- 
tirely, "  it  must  be  awfully  hard  work." 

"  It  isn't  the  hours  and  all  that,  I'm  talk- 
ing about,"  said  Linton;  "but  don't  you 
think  it's  sort  of  hard  on  one's  self-respect, 
some  of  the  things  reporters  have  to  do?  " 

Then  he  laughed,  though  there  wasn't 
anything  to  laugh  at,  and  wanted  to  change 
the  subject. 

"  You  don't  care  what  people  think  of  you 
— so  long  as  you  believe  in  yourself.  That's 
what's  so  fine  about  it,"  she  said.  "  Is  that 
what  you  mean?  " 

It  wasn't  what  he  meant,  exactly. 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said.    "  Look  at  those 
people  on  the  four-in-hand.    Why  do  they 
toot  their  horn  here  in  the  city?    We'd  all 
look  at  them  anyway." 
94 


The  New  Reporter 

But  the  girl,  who  had  a  nice  look  in  her 
eyes,  was  sorry  for  him  and  would  have 
liked  him  to  know  that  she  would  always 
believe  in  him,  no  matter  what  happened,  if 
that  would  help  any. 

He  did  know  she  believed  in  him;  not 
because  he  was  he,  but  because  she  was  she. 
He  wasn't  sure  that  she  ought  to.  That  was 
what  he  meant  to  tell  her.  Besides  it  did 
not  help  him — in  his  work. 

But  he  had  the  disquieting  sense  of  being 
ridiculous,  and  the  only  thing  to  do  at  such 
times  was  to  change  the  subject. 

"  I  shall  be  talking  earnestly  about  My 
Soul  next,  if  I  don't  look  out,"  he  laughed  to 
himself  on  the  way  down-town,  "  and  Con- 
scientious-ness and  Self-abnega-tion,  like  a 
blamed  self-conscious  New  Englander,  and 
say '  After  all,  how  lonely  is  each  one's  soul! ' 
and  things  like  that." 

Then  he  ran  up  the  stairs  to  the  office. 
"  Oh,  well,  I  got  the  half-column  out  of  the 
little  lawyer,  anyway,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Linton  had  been  with  the  paper  for  a  year 
now,  and  he  had  seen  all  sorts  of  things, 
95 


The  New  Reporter 

and  had  rubbed  up  against  all  sorts  of  in- 
terests, and  talked  to  all  sorts  of  human  be- 
ings. He  had  worked  at  all  hours  of  the  day 
and  night,  in  all  kinds  of  weather,  in  all  parts 
of  the  city  and  adjacent  country.  He  had 
worked  on  Christmas  and  the  Fourth  of  July, 
like  policemen.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  hardest 
work  known  to  civilized  man,  and  he  had  not 
once  broken  down  in  health ;  which  is  very 
good  for  a  new  reporter.  On  The  Day  they 
used  to  reckon  on  cubs  breaking  down  at 
some  stage  of  the  first  year  or  so;  then,  if 
they  don't  die,  they  are  supposed  to  have 
their  second  wind  after  that,  and  to  keep  in 
fairly  good  health  if  they  leave  whiskey 
alone. 

Linton  felt  himself  to  be  a  part  of  the 
office.  He  had  a  writing-table  of  his  own, 
with  as  many  cockroaches  in  the  drawers 
as  any  of  the  tables,  and  a  letter-box  down 
by  the  door,  which  he  turned  and  looked  at 
automatically  when  he  entered  the  room. 

He  took  off  his  coat  on  the  way  down 

the  aisle  to  his  table,  just  like  the  rest  of 

the  staff,  and  he  could  tell  at  a  glance  that 

Rice  had  written  the  political  interview  in 

96 


The  New  Reporter 

the  first  column,  and  Billy  Woods  the  hu- 
morous Women's  Convention  story,  and 
that  Stone  had  built  the  spread-head  on  it. 

Also,  some  of  the  younger  crowd  could  tell 
which  was  Linton's  stuff,  and  what  kind  of  a 
story  he  was  best  at.  Other  cub  reporters 
had  been  taken  on  since  Linton,  a  great 
many  others,  and  most  of  them  had  been 
dropped  after  the  first  month,  as  was  usual 
in  The  Day  office,  which  required  only  the 
best  men.  But  most  of  those  who  remained 
were  rapidly  surpassing  Linton  in  useful- 
ness. Linton  was  not  a  very  good  reporter. 
He  was  learning  to  write,  and  he  knew  some- 
thing about  handling  news,  but  sometimes 
he  was  not  so  good  at  getting  it  as  he  ought 
to  have  been  by  this  time.  This  was  put 
down  to  laziness. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  White,  the 
city  editor,  would  soon  be  going  home,  and 
Stone,  the  night  city  editor,  would  take  the 
desk.  Down  the  room  sat  Linton  with  his 
feet  cocked  up  on  his  table. 

"  Mr.  Linton,"  called  the  city  editor. 

The  reporter  took  down  his  feet,  picked 
up  some  copy-paper,  and  walked  to  the  desk, 
97 


The  New  Reporter 

where  the  city  editor  held  out  a  clipping  from 
an  afternoon  paper.  "  This  isn't  for  this 
evening,"  he  said,  smiling  suavely.  "The 
story  is  coming  up  in  court  to-morrow 
morning.  Will  you  get  up  early  and  cover 
it?  "  Early  meant  10  A.M. 

"  But  to-morrow  is  my  day  off,"  said  Lin- 
ton. 

"  Well,  do  just  as  you  like.  There's  a 
good  story  in  it,  if  you  care  to  do  a  little  extra 
work.  I  think  you  could  write  this  story — 
about  a  prominent  society  woman  who's 
having  some  trouble  with  her  bootmaker. 
Claims  he  didn't  send  round  the  shoes  she 
ordered,  so  she  won't  take  them.  He  sent 
her  the  bill  several  times,  but  she's  got  her 
back  up  now  and  won't  pay.  It's  the  same 
old  thing,  you  know,  but  there  may  be  some 
new  and  picturesque  points  in  it." 

The  reporter  was  listening  more  atten- 
tively now.  The  city  editor  went  on  talking. 
White  liked  to  talk  as  much  as  Stone  did  not. 
"The  shoemaker  says  he  isn't  going  to  let 
anybody  run  over  him,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  She  says  the  shoes  are  ready-made." 

"  That's  good,"  said  Linton,  smiling.  He 
98 


The  New  Reporter 

had  begun  to  feel  the  story.  He  saw  the 
determined  little  shoemaker  coming  into 
court  looking  vindictive.  Probably  he 
would  bring  the  shoes  with  him.  Perhaps 
both  sides  would  bring  shoes,  old  and  new, 
to  put  in  evidence.  He  could  have  fun  with 
the  shoes.  Then  the  clamoring  lawyers; 
they  would  make  a  lot  of  noise,  and  be  un- 
conscious of  the  humor  of  their  earnestness 
over  shoes.  The  society  person  would  try 
to  keep  her  dignity  and  look  haughty.  Then 
she  would  get  excited  and  lose  it,  if  she  had 
to  testify.  These  society  people,  so  called, 
were  always  amusing,  and  The  Day  was  a 
paper  that  did  not  take  them  quite  as  seri- 
ously as  they  did  themselves ;  and  Linton  de- 
cided, as  the  city  editor  went  on,  that  this 
was  a  chance  he  had  often  wanted.  He  knew 
he  could  do  it  well  and  yet  not  hurt  the 
paper. 

The  city  editor  noted  the  look  on  Linton's 
face,  and,  being  a  city  editor,  approved  of  it. 
"There's  good  humorous  stuff  in  it,"  he 
said,  handing  Linton  the  clipping,  "  dia- 
logue and  all  that,  just  your  line.  Do  you 
care  to  cover  it?  " 

99 


The  New  Reporter 

Linton  had  taken  the  clipping,  and  the 
first  words  he  saw  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
had  been  caught  doing  something  he  was 
ashamed  of.  "  Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's 
shoes,"  was  the  head.  Everyone  knew  who 
Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells  was,  but  she  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  few  people  in  all  New 
York  Linton  knew  personally.  That  was 
bad  enough  in  itself,  but  that  was  not  the 
worst.  She  was  a  first  cousin  to  the  girl  up- 
town who  stood  for  everything  that  news- 
paper work  was  not.  For  a  moment  he  re- 
coiled. He  did  not  like  to  think  of  coming, 
in  his  newspaper  capacity,  in  contact  with 
anybody  or  anything  even  remotely  con- 
nected with  her.  So  he  was  asking  himself 
if  he  could  deliberately  go  to  work  and  make 
a  relative  of  hers  the  subject  of  "  an  article 
in  the  newspaper  "  for  people  to  talk  and  gos- 
sip about? 

"What's  the  matter,"  asked  White; 
"  don't  you  want  it?  " 

Linton  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  here,"  interposed  the  city  editor,  im- 
patiently; "  if  you've  made  some  other  plan 
for  your  day  off,  say  so,  and  I'll  give  it  to 
someone  else." 

JOQ 


The  New  Reporter 

"  I  did  make  another  plan,"  said  Linton, 
"but  I  think  I'll  do  this  instead."  Then, 
blushing  a  little  at  the  thought  of  the  other 
plan,  the  new  reporter  added,  "  This  is  too 
good  a  story  to  miss,"  quite  like  an  old  re- 
porter, and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Perhaps  he  would  not  have  appreciated 
this  assignment  six  months  ago.  But,  you 
see,  he  was  no  longer  a  new  reporter.  .  .  . 
It  is  called  the  News  Instinct. 


101 


Mrs.   H.   Harrison  Wells's 
Shoes 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

T  INTON  had  written  a  very  pretty  acci- 
dental  drowning  story  (a  father  and 
two  young  children),  a  half-column  about  a 
suicide-for-love,  and  part  of  the  big  story  on 
the  first  page  about  the  absconding-bank- 
cashier-Sunday-school-superintendent.  So 
having  done  his  full  day's  share  of  uplifting 
and  moulding  the  public  mind,  he  should 
have  been  well  pleased  with  himself  the  next 
morning  when  the  paper  came  out,  but  he 
was  not. 

He  was  up  early  this  morning,  on  his  way 
to  the  Seventh  Judicial  District  Court,  at 
Third  Avenue  and  Fifty-seventh  Street,  and 
he  was  very  glum  and  discontented.  It  was 
bad  enough  to  get  out  of  bed  at  nine  o'clock 
— for  a  morning-paper  man.  But  he  wasn't 
thinking  about  that;  it  was  what  he  had  to 
do  when  he  arrived  there:  watch  a  woman 
— whom  he  considered  a  very  nice  woman — 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

in  a  lawsuit  with  a  shoemaker;  have  a  talk 
with  each  of  them,  get  both  sides  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  write  a  good  story,  with  facetious, 
satirical  touches  in  it,  for  New  York  to  smile 
over  the  next  morning  at  breakfast.  He 
knew  the  woman.  She  knew  him.  She 
would  see  him  there.  She  would  know  that 
he  was  watching  her.  She  would  know  that 
he  had  written  what  The  Day  published 
about  her  and  her  shoes.  He  felt  like  resign- 
ing. 

It  had  sounded  like  such  a  good  story  the 
afternoon  before  when  the  smiling  city  ed- 
itor was  talking  that  he  had  jumped  at  it. 
But  the  moment  he  left  the  hot,  exciting  at- 
mosphere of  the  City  Room,  it  all  seemed  a 
very  different  business.  This  morning  he 
had  cooled  down  still  more;  and  he  could 
not  understand  how  he  had  agreed  to  take 
such  an  assignment. 

He  had  been  at  this  work  long  enough 
now  not  to  mind  going  up  into  tenements 
and  talking  to  people  there  about  their  souls 
or  their  family  quarrels,  or  their  daughters 
who  had  killed  themselves,  or  the  reason  for 
it.  But  when  it  came  to  making  unpleasant 
publicity  for  refined  people,  it  seemed  a  dif- 
106 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

ferent  thing.  And  yet,  as  he  now  reminded 
himself,  it  ought  not  to  be  considered  a  dif- 
ferent thing.  So  he  told  himself  it  must  be 
that  he  was  afraid  of  being  seen  and  known 
as  a  reporter  by  "  refined  people,"  and  this 
made  him  hurry  up  the  Elevated  steps,  two 
at  a  time,  to  show  that  it  was  a  mistake. 

But  whether  it  was  foolish  or  not,  he  did 
not  like  the  idea  of  being  seen  on  this  as- 
signment, and  he  made  up  his  mind  on  the 
train  to  keep  out  of  her  way;  he  could  cover 
the  story  well  enough  without  having  a  talk 
with  her. 

But  you  see  there  was  no  dodging  the 
great  fact  that  this  woman  was  a  first  cousin 
to  the  girl  uptown,  who  seemed  to  him  to  be 
what  a  girl  ought  to  be,  and  who  believed  in 
him.  That  was  what  had  kept  him  awake 
during  the  night. 

Whether  the  girl  ever  knew  it  or  not,  yet 
he  would  always  know  that  he  had  deliber- 
ately .  .  .It  would  not  be  a  pleasant 
thing  to  remember  about  himself. 

All  the  old  repugnance  and  loathing  for 

this  thing  of  reporting  came  upon  him  worse 

than  ever,  and  he  pictured  himself,  as  he 

often  had  before,  going  back  to  the  of- 

107 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

fice  and  telling  the  city  editor  what  he  un- 
reservedly thought  about  the  whole  dirty 
business. 

"  I'll  go  back  and  say,  '  See  here,  White  ' 
(I  won't  call  him  '  mister  ').  '  What  do  you 
take  me  for,  White?  What  do  you  take  me 
for?  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  do  this  sort 
of  thing?  Well,  you're  mistaken.  I'll  tell 
you,  once  for  all,  I'll  be  damned  if  I  do.' " 
And  he  became  quite  hot  and  excited  telling 
himself  how  little  he  would  care  at  being  dis- 
charged, and  how  much  better  offers  he  had 
had  to  do  better  things,  etc.,  until  the  "  L  " 
guard  called  out  his  station. 

Then  he  got  out  and  wiped  his  brow,  and 
reminded  himself  that  he  had  no  intention 
of  making  any  such  fool  of  himself  as  that. 
He  had  often  felt  like  resigning  before,  and 
had  always  been  glad  he  hadn't. 

"  All  I  shall  have  to  do,"  he  remarked  to 
himself,  "  is  to  fall  down  on  this  assignment 
and  one  or  two  more  as  badly  as  I  did  last 
week,  and  I  shall  be  allowed  to  resign  fast 
enough  without  any  grand-stand  remarks." 

Meanwhile,  he  would  have  to  get  the  facts 
of  this  story  because  he  couldn't  very  well 
108 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

resign  over  the  telephone,  and,  besides,  there 
wasn't  time  to  send  up  another  man,  and  it 
wouldn't  be  square  to  let  the  paper  get 
beaten  on  the  story. 

"But  there  are  two  chances,"  he  said; 
"  either  the  case  has  been  settled  out  of  court 
to  avoid  publicity — I  should  think  it  would 
be — or  it  will  be  adjourned;  cases  generally 
are.  Very  likely  Mrs.  Wells  won't  be  there, 
anyhow." 

He  entered  the  court-room  and  found  he 
was  mistaken  in  all  these  suppositions,  and 
there  sat  Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells  in  the  front 
row,  with  a  lot  of  beautiful  tailor-made 
clothes  on,  looking  handsome  and  out  of 
place  in  the  stuffy  little  court-room,  which 
was  filled  with  bad  air  and  hard  faces. 

"  Well,"  thought  Linton,  backing  out 
again,  "  I'll  have  to  keep  out  of  her  sight 
somehow,"  and  just  then  somebody  slapped 
him  on  the  back. 

It  was  a  young  man  named  Harry  Law- 
rence. He  was  an  old  class-mate,  so  he 
greeted  Linton  cordially,  wanted  to  know 
what  in  thunder  he  was  doing  up  there,  and 
seemed  excited  about  something. 
109 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

Linton  said  he  was  a  reporter  for  The 
Day. 

"That's  so;  I  forgot,"  said  the  young 
lawyer.  "  Are  you  going  to  write  an  article 
up  here — What  about?" 

"  They  want  me  to  find  out  about  Mrs. 
Wells's  shoes  or  something." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  Why,  Fm  her  coun- 
sel," Lawrence  said,  sententiously.  "  I'll  be 
glad  to  give  you  all  the  help  I  can,  Jim.  I'll 
introduce  you  to  her,  if  you  like." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  won't,  though,"  thought 
Linton.  "  Is  she  going  to  stay  during  the 
trial?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  of  course.  It's  a  civil  suit,  you 
know.  She'll  have  to  testify."  The  young 
lawyer  hadn't  tried  very  many  cases  before, 
and  he  was  feeling  important.  "  Excuse  me 
a  minute,"  he  said.  "  You  wait  here,  Jim." 

But  Linton  did  not.  He  went  out  of  the 
door  before  Lawrence  reached  his  client's 
side,  and  he  meant  to  stay  out  until  he  heard 
the  clerk  call  out:  "Hawkins  against 
Wells."  And  then  he  was  merely  going  to 
get  the  bare  facts  and  go  down  to  the  office 
and  resign.  He  was  sick  of  this  business, 
no 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

A  few  minutes  later  the  door  opened  and 
Mrs.  Wells  came  out  of  the  court-room,  un- 
accompanied, and  started  for  the  stairs,  her 
skirts  swishing  sympathetically. 

"She's  probably  stifled  by  that  air," 
thought  Linton,  "  and  Harry's  busy  with 
briefs  and  things.  But  she  oughtn't  to  walk 

about  here  alone;  I  suppose  I  should " 

He  had  started  to  take  off  his  hat,  but 
stopped  his  hand  midway  and  scratched  his 
chin  instead,  for  Mrs.  Wells  had  looked  into 
his  face  and  out  the  other  side,  and  then  hur- 
ried on  down  the  stairs,  without  knowing  he 
was  there. 

"  It  wasn't  necessary  to  do  that,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  Harry  probably  asked  if  she 
wanted  to  talk  to  me,  and  she  probably  de- 
cided that  she  did  not.  She  had  a  right  to,  I 
suppose,  but  it  wasn't  at  all  necessary  to  do 
that."  He  felt  hot  all  over. 

He  watched  her  stepping  carefully  down 
the  dirty  stairs,  and  said  to  her  back,  "  You 
needn't  think  I  want  to  talk  to  you."  He 
had  never  experienced  anything  quite  like 
this  before  and  he  tried  to  laugh,  but  it  didn't 
seem  very  funny;  so  he  stopped  laughing 
in 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

and  became  angry  instead,  and  cursed  Harry 
Lawrence  for  a  snob. 

To  be  sure  he  had  only  seen  Mrs.  Wells 
twice  since  the  Commencement  Week  when 
he  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  her,  and  that  was 
some  time  ago,  and  he  was  dressed  in  a  flan- 
nel coat  and  duck  trousers  then.  Besides, 
she  was  to  be  a  defendant  in  a  lawsuit  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  that  might  have  preoccu- 
pied her,  but  he  did  not  stop  to  think  of  that. 
He  was  thinking  of  her  cousin. 

He  was  still  standing  by  the  window  in  the 
hall,  hot  with  indignation  at  her  and  angry 
and  sneering  at  himself  for  minding  it,  when 
Lawrence  suddenly  appeared  and  took  him 
by  the  arm.  "  Come  on,  old  man,  you  can 
talk  to  Mrs.  Wells.  Mr.  Wells  is  here,  too, 
now,  and " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Linton,  backing  off  and 
bristling  all  over. 

"  Come  on,  man,  what's  the  matter  with 
you?  Thought  you'd  quit  being  a  woman- 
hater."  Then  he  whispered,  "  Turn  around; 
here  they  come." 

Linton  turned  around  and  there  they 
came.  Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells  was  smil- 
112 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

ing  at  him.  It  was  her  regular  smile,  the 
one  she  used  every  evening.  Whether  she 
had  cut  him  before  or  not  she  meant  to  allow 
him  to  speak  to  her  now.  She  held  out  her 
hand,  condescendingly,  it  seemed  to  Linton, 
who  was  hating  her,  hating  Lawrence,  and 
hating  himself. 

The  husband  did  not  shake  hands;  he 
merely  said,  "  How  do,"  and  looked  like  a 
prosperous,  well-nurtured  New  Yorker. 
Linton  hated  him,  too,  and  took  out  his 
handkerchief  to  wipe  his  brow,  which  was 
wet;  and  Mrs.  Wells  said,  "  I  did  not  know 
that  you  had  taken  up  journalism.  What 
paper  do  you  write  for?  It  must  be  very  ex- 
citing. Do  you  like  it?  " 

She  was  an  interesting-looking  young 
New  York  chaperone,  but  Linton  saw  that 
she  had  the  hard,  sharp  look  about  the  eyes 
that  is  bound  to  come,  he  guessed,  when  a 
woman  thinks  a  good  deal  about  being  "  a 
leader;" — and  she  was  automatically  put- 
ting the  young  man  at  his  ease. 

Linton  did  not  like  people  to  put  him  at 
his  ease,  but  he  answered  that  he  enjoyed 
some  things  about  his  work,  and  that  he 
"3 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

called  it  reporting,  and  laughed  foolishly  and 
perspired  some  more  because  she  thought 
he  was  embarrassed  at  talking  to  her. 

But  she  was  smiling  quite  kindly  and  not 
paying  attention  to  what  he  said.  He  had 
a  notion  to  make  her,  and  at  the  same  time 
show  that  he  was  not  rattled,  by  telling  her 
that  he  had  already  taken  mental  note  of  her 
dark  green  street-dress  and  the  Paris  hat 
with  the  dash  of  red  in  it  which  was  becom- 
ing, and  even  of  the  small  calf-skin  shoes,  a 
pair  which  surely  were  made  expressly  for 
her;  but  Lawrence  had  begun  to  talk. 

"  You  see,"  he  said,  officiously,  "  Mrs. 
Wells  is  tired  of  having  these  shop-keepers 
bunco  her  all  the  time,  and  she  thought  she'd 
make  an  example  of  this  shoemaker." 

Mrs.  Wells  laughed  and  looked  more 
womanly  when  she  laughed  than  when  she 
smiled.  Linton  wanted  to  say,  "  I  don't  care 
to  hear  about  your  old  shoes." 

Then  her  husband  spoke  up,  looking  at 
Linton  in  a  way  he  did  not  fancy,  "  You  may 
say  she  thought  she  owed  it  to  our  friends  to 
expose  these  people's  methods — yes,  you 
say  that;  say  it  wasn't  the  money,  but  she 
"4 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

considers  it  her  duty,  as  a  matter  of  principle, 
you  understand?  " 

Linton  smiled  amiably  but  was  thinking, 
"  Uhh,  how  smug  you  are." 

The  husband  went  on :  "  Now,  my  wife's 
very  fond  of  shoes,  and  gets  a  great  many  of 
them.  It's  one  of  her  hobbies." 

"  Well,  I  do  know  a  ready-made  boot 
when  I  see  one,"  said  Mrs.  Wells,  looking  at 
her  husband. 

"  Of  course  you  do,"  said  the  husband, 
looking  at  her. 

"  You  bet  she  does,"  said  the  young  law- 
yer to  Linton. 

"  That  would  make  a  good  opening  sen- 
tence," said  the  reporter  to  himself. 

"At  any  rate,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Wells, 
shutting  her  eyes  and  opening  them  again, 
"  those  were  not  the  boots  I  ordered,  and  as 
they  had  done  this  same  thing  before,  and  as 
I  did  not  want  to  have  so  much  space  taken 
up  with  things  I  cari^t  wear,  why  I  returned 
them  and,  then,  they  sent  them  back  to  me 
once  more,  and  enclosed  the  bill,  too,  the  ag- 
gravating things;  so  I  returned  them  again, 
and  again  they  sent  them  back  to  me,  and — 
"5 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

oh,  we  had  a  fine  time  sending  them  back 
and  forth."  She  laughed  and  looked  at  her 
husband. 

It  occurred  to  Linton  that  if  he  had  not 
made  up  his  mind  not  to  cover  this  story 
there  was  a  good  paragraph  or  two  showing 
the  bootmaker's  boy  whistling  and  carrying 
the  innocent  shoes  to  Mrs.  Wells,  and  the 
Wells's  servant  marching  stiffly  back  with 
them  again — altogether  the  unworn  shoes 
would  travel  several  miles.  "  Why,  here 
comes  that  confounded  footman  again!  "  the 
bootmaker  would  say,  and  "  Oh,  here's  the 
boy  with  those  boots  again ! "  the  Wells's 
servants  would  exclaim.  That  is  the  way  it 
could  be  put  in  the  story  which  he  was  not 
to  write. 

"  Now  dear,"  interrupted  the  husband, 
"  Harry  says  we  must  go  in  and  sign  this 
thing."  Then,  in  a  different  tone  of  voice,  to 
the  reporter,  "  Anything  else  you  want?  " 

Linton  said,  "  I  thank  you,  no,"  and 
hoped  it  sounded  dignified  and  icy.  The 
three  hurried  off,  leaving  him  putting  away 
his  handkerchief. 

Some  of  the  other  reporters  who  had  been 
116 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

hovering  round  at  a  distance  now  hurried 
over  to  Linton  and  asked,  "  What  did  you 
get  out  of  them,  old  man?  " 

"  Nothing  much,"  said  Linton,  as  report- 
ers nearly  always  do,  and  then  he  began  to 
tell  them  as  much  as  he  thought  Mrs.  Wells 
would  not  object  to  their  knowing.  Mrs. 
Wells  seemed  to  be  watching  him  from 
across  the  room. 

Just  then  the  clerk  called  "  Hawkins  vs. 
Wells,"  and  the  other  reporters  hurried  up 
to  the  press-table  in  front  of  the  judge. 

Linton  hesitated  a  moment,  looked  across 
the  room  at  the  woman  who  had  a  cousin, 
then  at  the  other  reporters  hurriedly  sharp- 
ening their  pencils.  He  kept  on  looking  at 
the  reporters.  They  would  write  the  story. 
He  took  some  copy  paper  out  of  his  pocket 
— from  force  of  habit.  Those  fellows  did  not 
know  how  to  cover  this  story.  He  tore  off 
a  bit  of  copy  paper  and  began  to  chew  it. 
Then  he  said,  "Oh,  well,  he  thinks  I'm 
writing  it  anyway,"  and  walked  up  to  the 
table. 

The  case  did  not  last  very  long.  Each 
side  had  brought  shoes  to  court  and  held 
117 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

them  up  for  the  judge  to  examine.  The  de- 
fence first  tried  to  show  that  the  shoes  in 
question  were  ready-made  shoes,  but  the 
shoemaker  had  an  employee  to  testify  to 
having  made  them  himself  by  hand. 

"But,  Your  Honor,"  young  Lawrence 
exclaimed,  getting  worked  up,  "  we  do  not 
care  whether  these  shoes  are  made  to  order 
or  not.  Granted  that  they  are.  That  is  not 
the  point  at  issue.  Our  contention  is  that 
they  were  not  made  for  our  client.  The  wit- 
ness does  not  swear  that  they  were.  He  can- 
not. He  dares  not.  But,  Your  Honor,  we 
will  show  conclusively  that  they  are  not  the 
shoes  we  ordered.  Now  we  have  shown  you 
by  exhibit '  B  '  that  Mrs.  Wells  always  orders 
eight  buttons,  why  should  she  on  this  occa- 
sion order  seven  buttons?  "  etc.,  all  of  which 
would  make  a  good  story,  as  Linton  well 
knew,  and  the  humorous  values  were  ar- 
ranging themselves  in  his  head  in  spite  of 
himself. 

But  the  best  part,  of  course,  was  when 

Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells  was  called  to  the 

stand  to  testify  and  had  to  try  on  several 

pairs  of  shoes.    This  was  one  of  the  chief 

n8 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

points  in  the  story,  and  the  head-line  in  an 
afternoon  yellow  paper  later  in  the  day  was, 

MRS.  WELLS'S  FEET. 

SOCIETY    WOMAN     TAKES    OFF    HER    SHOES     IN 
COURT. 

Linton  thought  he  was  fastidious  about 
such  things,  but  he  could  not  help  admiring 
her  for  the  way  she  carried  it  off.  She  knew 
that  some  of  the  papers  (not  his  paper,  thank 
Heavens!)  had  "  artists  "  there  making  rapid 
sketches,  but  she  kept  her  self-possession 
all  through  the  ordeal.  She  blushed  and 
smiled,  but  she  did  not  smile  too  much.  He 
thought  she  was  just  about  right.  "This 
has  to  be  done,"  she  seemed  to  say,  "  so  I 
may  as  well  do  it  with  dignity  and  grace,", 
and  she  did. 

Also,  she  won  the  case,  and  young  Law- 
rence and  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  H.  Harrison 
Wells,"  with  swishing  skirts,  hurried  out  of 
the  room  excited  and  delighted  together,  and 
the  next  case  was  called. 

Linton  waited  until  he  heard  their  car- 
riage-door slam  and  then  he  hurried  to  the 
119 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

office,  sat  down  and  dashed  off  the  best  story 
he  had  ever  written. 

He  had  the  glow  of  creation,  and  he  felt 
reckless  and  brilliant.  He  had  a  good  hu- 
morous story  in  his  head — it  had  formed  it- 
self there  automatically — and  he  did  not  let 
himself  stop  to  think  whether  he  was  giving 
anybody  unpleasant  publicity  or  not. 

Besides,  he  had  undertaken  the  job,  so  it 
was  his  duty  to  his  paper  to  carry  it  through 
to  the  best  of  his  ability,  no  matter  who  was 
the  woman's  cousin,  was  it  not? 

The  story  began,  "  Mrs.  H.  Harrison 
Wells  knows  a  ready-made  shoe  when  she 
sees  it.  Hereafter  a  certain  fashionable  boot- 
maker will  remember  this.  He  has  reason 
to."  Then  he  referred  to  her  dainty  demon- 
stration, and  ended  his  opening  paragraph, 
as  was  then  the  vogue  in  The  Day  office,  with 
a  little  short  sentence.  Like  this. 

Then  he  made  a  terse  exposition  of  the 
facts  of  the  trouble,  and  told  about  Mrs. 
Wells's  interesting  shoe  hobby,  and  de- 
scribed, in  detail,  the  shoes  the  defence 
brought  to  court,  and  the  shoes  the  serious- 
faced  shoemaker  brought  also.  He  told 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

where,  as  shown  by  the  old  shoes,  the  defend- 
ant was  accustomed  to  wear  them  out  first, 
and  on  which  side  she  ran  the  heels  down, 
which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  case,  but 
would  make  interesting  reading.  He  told 
how  fine  and  soft  the  material  was,  and 
ended  that  paragraph  with,  "  However, 
most  New  York  women  would  not  want 
these  shoes.  They  could  not  use  them;" 
which  was  true. 

"  What  rot!  "  thought  Linton  as  he  wrote 
it,  but  it  was  the  sort  of  thing  The  Day  liked, 
just  as  The  Earth's  story  was  not;  the  latter 
said,  "  Of  course  a  member  of  the  400  could 
not  wear  ready-made  shoes.  Mercy,  no!" 
And  things  of  that  silly  sort. 

Then  Linton  showed,  with  interpolated 
dialogue,  written  in  short  paragraphs  which 
are  apt  to  look  readable  glancing  down  the 
column,  how  the  earnest  little  shoemaker 
became  easily  tangled  up  in  cross-examina- 
tion by  the  young  lawyer,  whom  Linton 
could  not  help  patronizing  a  little  by  the 
way,  then  concluded  with  the  carriage-door 
slamming  and  the  horses  clattering  off,  while 
the  shoemaker  went  back  to  his  shop,  and 

121 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

"  under  his  arm  were  the  soft  little  shoes  that 
caused  all  the  trouble." 

Then  he  filed  his  copy,  put  on  his  hat,  and 
went  out  and  took  a  drink  all  by  himself. 

The  next  morning  when  Linton  came 
down  to  the  office  he  found  he  had  written 
the  story  of  the  day.  He  was  congratulated 
by  all  the  men  who  knew  him,  and  by  some 
who  did  not,  and,  best  of  all,  he  overheard 
Billy  Woods  say,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  Who 
wrote  that  shoe  story?  It's  good."  "  Lin- 
ton,"  replied  another  older  man,  who  the 
young  reporter  had  supposed  did  not  know 
his  name. 

Just  then  the  city  editor  called  him  up  to 
the  desk  and  after  complimenting  him  on 
the  way  he  had  handled  the  story,  told  him 
that  at  the  end  of  the  week  his  salary  would 
be  increased.  Linton  thanked  him,  but  said 
he  was  not  sure  that  he  was  going  to  stay 
with  the  paper;  he  would  let  him  know  in 
a  few  days.  The  reporter  did  not  feel  so 
pleased  over  his  story  as  he  thought  he 
ought  to. 

But  later  in  the  day  he  heard  down-stairs 
122 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

— to  his  complete  amazement — that  Mrs. 
H.  Harrison  Wells  had  ordered  twenty 
extra  copies  of  the  paper  from  the  counting- 
rooms.  No  one  could  tell,  of  course,  how 
many  others  she  had  bought  at  the  news- 
stands. She  could  not  have  been  very  in- 
dignant. 

The  reporter  told  himself  he  ought  to  be 
glad ;  he  did  not  quite  see  why  he  felt  so  dis- 
gusted. Ought  he  not  to  be  pleased?  For 
she  had  not  cut  him  purposely,  as  he  after- 
wards learned,  and  wanted  to  be  interviewed 
all  along,  and  she  thought  his  writing  very 
clever.  Doubtless,  her  friends  were  pleased, 
too,  for  they  smiled  and  said :  "  What  won't 
the  woman  do  next  to  show  off  those  feet?  " 

Linton  heard  this  from  Lawrence  at  a 
class  smoker  the  following  evening.  The 
young  lawyer  thanked  him  sincerely  for  the 
kind  mention  of  him  as  Mrs.  Wells's  coun- 
sel, and  asked  if  Linton  did  not  think  it 
ought  to  help  bring  in  some  more  business 
from  her  set.  Linton  said  he  thought  so. 

Even  the  shoemaker,  Linton  discovered, 
was  rather  pleased  at  seeing  his  name  in  the 
paper,  although  it  did  show  him  in  a  bad 
123 


Mrs.  H.  Harrison  Wells's  Shoes 

light.  "  That  will  tell  people  what  class  of 
customers  I  have,  anyway,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  It's  a  good  ad." 

"  I  see,"  thought  young  Linton,  "  that  I 
am  more  of  a  kid  than  I  supposed.  So  far 
as  I  have  cared  to  inquire,  everyone  seems 
to  be  pleased,  from  the  city  editor  to  Mrs. 
Wells.  Now,  I  am  the  cause  of  it.  So  I 
think  I  may  as  well  be  pleased,  too."  Then 
he  added,  after  a  pause,  "  I  believe  I  can 
stop  thinking  about  unnecessary  things  now 
— and  become  a  good  reporter."  And  that 
was  what  he  decided  to  do. 


124 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State 
Interview 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State 
Interview 

'"THIS  was  the  first  important  assignment 
they  had  given  him  since  he  had  be- 
come a  newspaper  man. 

The  Star  was  the  name  of  the  paper,  a 
bright  afternoon  paper  that  printed  very  few 
pictures  and  a  great  deal  of  news.  The  name 
of  the  reporter  was  Rufus  Carrington,  and 
most  of  the  time  they  seemed  to  forget  his 
existence  and  made  him  sit  idle  in  the  middle 
of  the  busy  room,  getting  in  people's  way, 
just  as  they  do  with  all  cubs,  letting  them 
soak  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  place.  This 
seemed  all  wrong  to  Rufus,  who  thought 
that  a  newspaper  man,  of  all  men  in  the  busy 
city,  ought  to  be  the  busiest. 

He  had  supposed  that  reporters  went  out 
upon  the  street  and  prowled  about  blindly  on 
the  lookout  for  news,  like  policemen  after  ar- 
rests, and  he  had  wondered  what  part  of  the 
127 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

town  he  would  have  to  patrol,  and  whether 
to  wear  his  reporter's  badge  on  the  breast  of 
the  waistcoat  or  at  the  bottom,  like  his  Har- 
lem literary-club  pin.  But  he  soon  found 
that  each  reporter  was  sent  for  a  particular 
piece  of  news,  the  existence  of  which  was 
determined  in  some  mysterious  way  by  the 
city  editor,  who  had  his  fingers  on  the  pulse 
of  the  strenuous  metropolis  and  scowled 
most  of  the  time. 

His  few  assignments  were,  for  the  most 
part,  to  get  up  minor  obituaries — "  obits  " 
they  were  called — or  to  run  down  stories 
which  the  news-bureaus  sent  in  (on  type- 
written tissue-paper,  called  "  flimsy  ")  to  see 
if  they  were  correct;  and  no  one  said  any- 
thing about  badges,  which  he  had  discovered 
were  seldom  worn,  except  at  fires.  Of  late 
they  had  taken  to  sending  him  to  the  Weather 
Bureau  occasionally  to  find  out  what  kind  of 
a  day  it  was  going  to  be,  or  to  a  police  court 
to  look  out  for  picturesque  cases,  which  a 
cub  doesn't  always  recognize  when  he  sees 
them  ;  and  of  those  he  does  cover  he  may  for- 
get to  find  out  the  age,  address,  initials,  or  oc- 
cupation of  someone  in  the  story,  or  the  name 
128 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

or  precinct  of  the  policeman,  or  the  place  or 
time  of  the  occurrence,  or  the  time  or  place 
of  the  arrest;  if  so,  "  Run,  get  back  and  get 
your  facts !  "  growled  the  city  editor.  And 
the  chances  were  good  that  not  a  line  of  it 
would  be  printed  in  the  paper  after  all. 

Reporting  was  a  very  different  job  from 
"  Journalism,"  as  he  had  pictured  it  from  a 
romantic  distance.  He  did  not  breathe  a 
word  concerning  his  high  ideals  about  the 
Power  of  the  Press — except  possibly  on 
Sundays,  to  his  mother  up  in  Harlem — and 
his  worthy  ambition  to  cleanse  it  he  had 
postponed  indefinitely.  His  present  ambi- 
tion, though  he  did  not  confide  this  to  any- 
body, was  to  keep  from  being  sworn  at  by 
the  city  editor,  who  sometimes  made  him 
feel  that  he  had  missed  his  calling.  It  is  at 
this  stage  that  most  of  them  (who  go  into 
newspaper  work,  calling  it  Journalism)  quit 
and  try  something  else,  and  shudder  ever  af- 
terward at  the  mention  of  reporting. 

Rufus  did  not  quit,  because,  if  you  care  to 

know  it,  he  intended  to  become  a  great  writer 

some  day,  and  he  believed  that  this  was  the 

way  to  go  about  it.    He  thought  a  little  dis- 

129 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

agreeableness  for  a  couple  of  years  would  not 
hurt  him ;  and  it  would  be  very  pleasant  af- 
terward to  read  that  "  From  the  year  so-and- 
so  till  the  year  so-and-so  the  author  engaged 
in  newspaper  work;  then,  with  the  appear- 
ance of  his  first  book,  Rufus  Carrington  " — 
that  would  make  a  fine  sonorous  mouthful, 
"  Rufus  Carrington,  author " —  .  .  . 

This  was  a  responsible  assignment,  and  he 
meant  to  do  well  with  it.  It  was  right  that 
he  should,  because  they  were  thinking  of 
dropping  him  at  the  end  of  the  week,  along 
with  a  couple  of  other  cubs  who  were  not 
catching  on  rapidly  enough.  The  only  rea- 
son they  had  sent  him  up  to  get  the  interview 
was  that  a  good  part  of  the  staff,  which  was 
small,  was  up  across  the  Harlem  this  after- 
noon on  the  big  railroad  catastrophe,  and 
the  rest  of  the  good  reporters  were  down  the 
bay  on  a  grounded-steamer  story,  and  the 
regular  political  men  were  off  on  more  im- 
portant interviews. 

At  least  they  thought  they  were  going  to 
be  more  important.  The  interview  with  the 
Secretary  of  State  turned  out  to  be  the  story 
130 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

of  the  day,  the  biggest  story  of  many  days, 
in  some  respects;  but  this  would  not  have 
been  the  case  if  young  Carrington  had  not 
been  sent  to  cover  it. 

"  He  probably  won't  say  much,"  Van  Cise, 
the  city  editor,  had  said,  "  but  watch  him  if 
he  gets  to  talking  about  the  Convention. 
You  understand?  That's  the  story  to-day, 
of  course." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Carrington,  the  cub, 
putting  on  his  hat  excitedly.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand at  all.  He  was  not  interested  in 
conventions  and  seldom  read  the  political 
columns.  All  he  understood  was  that  they 
were  sending  him  to  interview  the  Secretary 
of  State  of  these  United  States,  and  it  felt 
good.  So  he  hurried  down  the  stairs  with  his 
brows  knit  like  the  older  reporters  starting 
out  on  their  big  stories. 

He  felt  considerably  awed  when  he  arrived 
at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  and  was  led  into 
the  small  parlor  where  the  other  reporters 
were  waiting,  because  here  he  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  some  of  the  best-known 
newspaper  men  on  Park  Row,  and  a  number 
of  prominent  correspondents  for  out-of-town 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

papers.  A  couple  of  them  smiled  as  though 
they  thought  he  was  pretty  young  to  cover 
the  story.  Rufus  took  a  seat  all  alone  in  the 
corner  by  the  door  and  tried  not  to  appear 
conscious,  and  when  they  stopped  looking 
at  him  he  looked  at  them.  Donaldson  had 
once  been  a  foreign  correspondent.  The 
man  beside  him  sometimes  wrote  editorials. 
They  were  all  older  than  he  was.  Some  of 
them  had  beards,  some  wives,  and  some  po- 
litical aspirations.  At  that  point  the  Secre- 
tary of  State  entered. 

He  was  smiling  his  public-occasion  smile, 
looking  scholarly  in  a  frock-coat  which  fitted 
better  than  most  public  men's  frock-coats, 
and  he  was  followed  by  his  stenographer, 
who  seemed  tired  and  had  an  offensive  blond 
beard,  and  was  to  take  down  every  word 
said  from  the  moment  the  Secretary  of  State 
took  his  seat  until  he  left  the  room. 

The  important  one  said,  "  How  do  you  do, 
gentlemen?"  very  cordially,  and  began 
shaking  hands  with  them  all ;  with  Carring- 
ton,  too,  who  did  not  know  whether  or  not 
to  say  he  was  glad  to  meet  him. 

The  Secretary  of  State  told  his  stenog- 
132 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

rapher  to  call  a  waiter,  and  the  waiter  to  take 
the  gentlemen's  orders.  Rufus  thought  it 
odd  for  the  Secretary  of  State  of  these  United 
States  to  set  up  the  drinks,  but  the  older 
men  did  not  seem  to  mind  it.  They  gave 
their  orders  and  forgot  to  say  thank  you. 
Then  the  interview  began. 

Rufus  did  not  know  the  interview  was  be- 
ginning; because  reading  an  interview  and 
making  one  are  so  different.  He  thought 
they  were  just  talking  and  would  begin  to 
formally  interview,  in  long,  grave  questions 
with  participles  in  them,  as  soon  as  they  had 
finished  their  drinks,  carefully  writing  down 
what  was  said  in  note-books  (which  most  re- 
porters do  not  carry),  by  shorthand  (which 
few  reporters  understand).  One  of  the  men, 
the  ancient-looking  reporter  from  The  Post, 
merely  inquired  in  a  casual  and  personal 
tone,  as  though  to  fill  up  a  pause,  although 
he  expected  to  print  the  answer  and  the  Sec- 
retary knew  it,  "  What  brings  you  to  New 
York  to-day,  sir?  " 

"  Oh,  merely  personal  business;  just  a  fly- 
ing trip.  I  expect  to  go  back  to-night." 

Then  someone  edged  up  toward  what 
133 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

they  all  wanted  to  know,  by  asking  if  the 
Secretary  thought  the  Convention  now  as- 
sembled in  the  Western  State  would  nomi- 
nate Holliday  for  Governor.  They  had  an 
idea,  and  it  was  correct,  that  this  Convention 
and  his  sudden  trip  to  New  York  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  each  other.  That  was  why 
they  had  besieged  the  hotel  until  he  capitu- 
lated and  sent  out  word  that  he  would  be 
pleased  to  meet  the  reporters  all  together  at 
this  hour.  Only,  the  Secretary  called  them 
"  Representatives  of  the  Press." 

The  scholarly  looking  Secretary  smiled 
pleasantly  and  said  he  would  not  venture  an 
opinion  as  to  that,  and  then  (though  nobody 
just  knew  how  the  transition  was  made)  he 
began  talking  copiously  about  party  affairs 
in  New  York,  and  the  possibility  of  reconcil- 
ing the  two  factions — something  that  would 
make  very  interesting  copy  if  said  next  fall, 
but  hardly  worth  a  paragraph  to-day. 

But  Rufus  made  two  observations.  First, 
that  when  the  question  about  Holliday  was 
asked,  one  of  the  reporters,  who  was  about 
to  finish  his  drink,  held  his  glass  poised  until 
the  answer  came.  And  he  noticed  that  the 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

scholarly  looking  Secretary  seemed  to  be 
less  the  scholar  now  and  more  the  shrewd- 
eyed  but  smiling  politician.  Somehow 
Rufus  was  rather  sorry  about  that. 

But  he  could  not  keep  up  with  the  rapid 
current  of  the  talk  at  all.  He  did  not  know 
which  was  the  current  and  which  were  the 
eddies.  All  the  others  seemed  to  know,  and 
some  of  them  began  to  jot  down  occasional 
notes  on  copy-paper  or  on  the  margins  of 
their  newspapers  while  he  looked  at  them 
and  wondered  what  they  wrote,  and  wished 
he  knew  something  about  politics.  The 
others  knew  a  great  deal  about  politics. 
Most  of  them  could  tell  all  the  initials  and 
ambitions  of  all  the  minor  politicians  in  the 
State,  and  of  all  the  big  politicians  in  every 
State.  They  understood  the  national  signifi- 
cance of  this  State  Convention. 

The  Secretary  understood  a  good  deal 
about  reporters.  He  knew  that  among  those 
to  whom  he  was  giving  audience  there  were 
two  or  three  of  the  best  interviewers  in  the 
country,  and  they  knew  he  knew  this.  So 
the  merry  game  of  lead-up  and  dodge-away 
had  been  carried  on  for  nearly  twenty  min- 
135 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

utes,  and  the  Secretary  of  State  seemed  to 
have  the  merriest  time  of  them  all.  He  was 
smiling  serenely.  Baffling  interviewers  was 
one  of  his  recreations. 

Donaldson  was  sharpening  his  lead-pen- 
cil. "What  is  the  cause,"  he  said,  boldly,  " of 
the  administration's  antagonism  toward  Hol- 
liday?  "  He  went  on  whittling  his  pencil. 

General  Holliday  had  chin-whiskers  and 
was  the  best  type  of  Western  statesman. 
Wolf,  the  machine  man,  was  no  type  of 
statesman;  he  was  a  politician.  Everyone 
knew,  including  the  Secretary  of  State,  that 
Holliday  was  a  better  man  than  Wolf.  What 
decent  reason  could  the  administration  give 
for  being  opposed  to  the  better  man?  And 
if  the  Secretary  of  State  said  there  was  no 
opposition,  he  knew,  none  better,  what  might 
be  the  result.  But  he  had  reasons  for  not 
wanting  to  express  a  preference  for  either 
wing  of  the  party.  Whatever  was  said 
would,  in  half  an  hour,  be  flashed  into  every 
big  newspaper-office  in  the  country  and, 
what  was  of  more  consequence,  into  the  Con- 
vention Hall  of  the  Western  city.  If  he  re- 
fused to  answer,  that,  too,  would  be  news, 
136 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

and  news  that  he  did  not  care  to  have  dis- 
seminated. It  required  some  thinking  to  re- 
ply, but  the  reply  came  without  any  of  the 
delay  that  has  been  made  here :  "  I  am  not 
aware  that  any  antagonism  has  been  mani- 
fested toward  General  Holliday  on  the  part 
of  the  administration." 

It  came  out  very  easily  apparently,  and  it 
was  an  answer  that  could  be  published  with- 
out embarrassment  to  the  administration. 
There  had  been  no  manifestation  of  antag- 
onism ;  that  was  true. 

A  momentary  lull  followed.  The  report- 
ers were  not  stopping  to  admire  the  Secre- 
tary's skilful  answer,  but  they  were  so 
anxious  to  follow  it  up  before  he  changed  the 
subject  that  everyone  waited  for  everyone 
else  to  do  it. 

Young  Carrington  had  carefully  put  down 
the  question  and  answer,  although  he  did 
not  appreciate  the  significance  of  either.  He 
was  sitting  next  to  the  Secretary  of  State, 
and  he  was  the  only  one  who  had  not  said  a 
word.  He  wanted  to  show  that  he  was  not 
so  green  as  they  thought  he  was.  His  heart 
began  to  thump,  but  he  stopped  chewing  his 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

pencil  and  said  to  the  big  man,  in  a  brave 
voice,  "  What  I  should  like  to  know  sir,  is, 
will  Holliday  have  the  support  of  the  admin- 
istration if  he  is  nominated?  Will  he?  " 

That  was  what  they  all  wanted  to  know. 
But  it  came  out  so  naively,  as  if  the  idea  had 
just  occurred  to  him  (and  so  it  had),  that 
some  of  them  burst  out  laughing.  The  sec- 
retary laughed  a  little,  too,  and,  turning 
kindly  toward  the  boy,  who  had  dropped  his 
eyes,  said,  with  a  queer,  ironical  smile,  in  an 
amused  tone,  "  He  would  have  the  heartiest 
support  the  administration  could  give." 
Then  turned  and  smiled  around  at  the  rest 
of  the  room  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  know 
what  I  mean  by  that ; "  and  the  others 
thought  they  did  know  what  he  meant  by 
that  and  smiled  at  his  ironical  evasion,  and 
smiled,  too,  at  the  ignorance  of  the  cub.  But 
they  were  too  hot  upon  the  scent  of  news  to 
delay  the  interview  long  and  were  soon  busy 
asking  other  questions. 

Meanwhile,  the  cub  reporter,  wondering 

why  they  laughed,  sucked  in  his  lower  lip 

and  wrote:    "He  would  have  the  heartiest 

support  the  administration  could  give,"  but 

138 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

without  the  queer  smile  which  he  had  not 
seen  and  without  the  subtle  emphasis  which 
he  had  not  appreciated. 

"  How  did  you  make  out?  "  snapped  Van 
Cise,  as  Carrington  came  into  the  room. 

It  was  getting  on  toward  time  to  go  to 
press  with  the  last  edition,  and  the  city  ed- 
itor was  in  a  hurry  to  get  things  cleared  up. 

Refus  returned,  jocularly,  "  Oh,  he's  the 
same  old  fox."  He  had  heard  one  of  the 
other  reporters  say  that  on  the  way  out  of  the 
hotel.  "Just  as  we  were  beginning  to  get 
at  what  we  wanted,  he  jumped  up,  said  he 
had  an  engagement  and  left  the  room  with 
his  stenographer." 

The  city  editor  walked  on  down  to  the 
telephone,  saying,  "  Two  sticks  will  do." 
But  on  the  way  back  he  asked,  "  Didn't  he 
say  anything  about  Holliday  and  the  Con- 
vention? " 

"  Hardly  anything.  Said  Holliday  would 
have  the  backing  of  the  administration, 
but " 

The  city  editor  stopped  short.  "That 
Holliday  would  have  what  ?  Say  that  again." 
He  looked  sharply  at  the  boy. 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

"  Why,  he  merely  said  that  if  Holliday  was 
nominated  the  administration  would  back 
him." 

"Are  you  sure  about  that?  Why  didn't 
you  say  so.  Are  you  sure  he  said  the  ad- 
ministration would  support  Holliday?  " 

"  If  nominated,"  returned  Carrington. 

"  That's  news,"  said  Van  Cise,  getting  ex- 
cited internally.  "  Write  all  you've  got." 
He  glanced  at  the  clock  and  then  began  talk- 
ing very  rapidly.  "  Write  as  fast  as  you  can. 
Start  over  again.  Begin  your  story  '  The 
administration  has  come  out  at  the  eleventh 
hour  in  favor  of  Holliday.  The  Secretary  of 
State  in  an  interview  this  afternoon  said,  that 
if  Holliday  were  nominated  he  would  have 
the  heartiest  support  the  administration 
could  give ' — quote  his  exact  words.  Add 
that  this  statement  is  a  great  surprise  to 
everybody.  Point  out  the  probable  effect  on 
the  Convention  when  this  news  gets  there. 
Then  go  back  and  tell  of  the  time  of  his  ar- 
rival in  town,  write  the  interview  chrono- 
logically, lead  up  to  this  statement  again,  and 
— oh,  here  comes  Hopper.  Good!  See  here, 
Hopper,  you  take  this  story  with  Carring- 
140 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

ton.  Rewrite  it  and  fill  in.  He  doesn't  know 
anything  about  politics.  Never  mind  your 
other  story.  This  is  more  important." 

Hopper  bristled  up  with  interest.  He 
reached  for  some  copy-paper.  The  cub 
mopped  his  brow.  He  gasped  to  himself, 
"  At  the  hotel  they  said  the  story  was  no 
good!" 

"  Come  on  now,"  said  Hopper.  Carring- 
ton  began  a  sentence,  scratched  it  out,  be- 
gan it  over  again.  "  Hurry,"  said  Hopper, 
"  there's  not  much  time." 

The  city  editor  had  rushed  into  the  pri- 
vate office,  and  now  Reed,  the  managing 
editor,  ran  out  exclaiming,  joyously,  "  Flat- 
footed  for  the  General!  "  and  tore  down  to 
the  end  of  the  room.  They  were  making 
the  forms  ready.  He  began  shouting  new 
orders.  This  was  to  be  the  story  of  the  day. 
It  was  going  in  the  first  column.  That  in- 
volved a  new  make-up  of  the  first  page.  The 
office-boys  were  asking  each  other  what  was 
the  big  news  that  had  just  come  in.  The 
copy-readers  knew  all  about  it  already.  Car- 
rington,  the  cub,  was  writing  faster  than  he 
ever  wrote  before.  Hopper  was  grabbing 
141 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

his  sheets  almost  before  he  reached  the  bot- 
tom of  them,  running  his  pencil  through 
some  words,  filling  in  others,  calling 
"  copy  "  to  the  boys  who  carried  the  sheets 
to  the  compositors,  who  were  making  the 
type-setting  machines  hum.  Carrington 
was  now  writing  on  page  5.  Page  3  was  al- 
ready in  type.  "  I  suppose,"  he  whispered 
to  himself,  "  they  were  bluffing  at  the  hotel. 
Just  like  me  to  get  fooled." 

A  few  minutes  later  there  was  a  sudden 
burst  of  cheers  in  the  Convention  Hall  of  the 
Western  city.  Upon  a  bulletin-board  had 
been  written  a  message  sent  by  Reed,  the 
managing  editor,  to  The  Evening  Star's 
correspondent. 

For  three  minutes  there  was  much  cheer- 
ing and  throwing  up  of  hats  from  the  Holli- 
day  men  all  over  the  hall.  The  Evening  Star 
was  always  popping  out  with  exclusive  news, 
and  it  was  a  clean,  reliable  paper. 

It  had  come  just  in  time.  Other  dis- 
patches already  arrived  had  reported  "  the 
administration  continues  its  past  policy  of 
silence."  And  in  a  few  minutes  more  the 
142 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

balloting  might  have  begun  and  the  ma- 
chine would  have  rushed  its  man  in. 

Now  several  honest  Holliday  men  tried  to 
take  the  floor  at  once,  and  shouted,  "  Mr. 
Chairman."  The  chairman  hammered  with 
his  gavel  and  shouted,  "Order!  order!" 
And  there  was  no  order,  because  the  ma- 
chine men  were  clamoring  also.  Finally 
someone  beckoned  to  the  band,  which  played 
vigorously  and  soon  drowned  out  the  tur- 
moil. Then  the  voices  stopped.  Then  the 
band  stopped.  Then  the  Holliday  men 
popped  up  and  tried  to  get  the  floor.  Again 
the  machine  men  rose  to  points  of  order  and 
disorder. 

Meanwhile,  over  in  the  press  corner  of  the 
platform,  the  Convention's  correspondents 
also  were  excited — for  correspondents. 
"  How  in  thunder  did  they  get  a  beat  on 
that?"  one  of  the  New  Yorkers  was  ask- 
ing. Another  said,  "  You'd  think  he'd  give 
a  private  interview  to  any  other  paper  in 
town  before  The  Star" 

"  But  I  can't  understand,"  said  the  Boston 
Advertiser  man,  "  why  he  gave  this  news 
privately  to  anyone.  If  the  administration 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

were  coming  out  for  Holliday,  you'd  think 
they'd  tell  everyone." 

"  Of  course,"  said  a  Westerner,  "  they'd 
take  pains  to  give  it  out  as  a  public  state- 
ment, wouldn't  they?  " 

"  If  it  were  anyone  but  Reed,"  said  one  of 
the  New  Yorkers,  "  I  would  say  it  was  clear- 
ly a  fake  to  secure  his  own  promised  fat  office 
through  Holliday  next  fall." 

"  Reed  wouldn't  dare  fake  on  a  thing  like 
that,  even  if  he  were  that  sort,"  said  The 
Baltimore  Sun  man.  "  It  would  simply  kill 
him,  kill  his  political  chances,  and  kill  him 
as  a  newspaper  man." 

But  The  Evening  Star  correspondent  wore 
a  confident  smile,  and  only  said,  "  It's  a  beat 
on  the  whole  country,  and  will  nominate 
Holliday  as  soon  as  these  Western  jays  re- 
gain their  heads."  But  he  turned  around, 
relaxed  his  confident  smile,  and  swiftly 
wrote  this  dispatch  to  the  home  office,  like  a 
good  newspaper  man :  "  How  about  inter- 
view? all  others  say  non-committal.  Did 
you  have  a  private  interview?  I  say  so  here. 
Better  verify  before  you  go  to  press." 
144 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

But  this  did  not  get  through  to  New  York 
for  many  precious  seconds. 


When  the  dispatch  came  in,  Reed,  the 
managing  editor,  was  leaning  against  the 
make-up  stone,  fanning  himself  and  feeling 
relaxed;  excited,  but  joyous.  The  older 
members  of  the  staff,  who  knew  him  well 
enough,  were  half-jokingly  congratulating 
him  on  his  prospective  office.  If  Holliday 
received  the  nomination  to-day,  as  the  bet- 
ter element  of  the  party  all  over  the  country 
had  been  praying,  his  election  in  the  fall  was 
practically  certain.  And  it  took  only  this 
added  straw  for  Reed  to  get  the  consulship 
he  wanted  from  Washington.  The  younger 
men  looked  on  and  grinned,  and  wished  they 
dared  congratulate  him.  He  was  a  manag- 
ing editor  who  was  liked  as  well  as  feared. 

"  I'd  feel  better,  though,"  they  heard  him 
say,  "  if  we  could  hear  from  the  Conven- 
tion. I've  tried  three  times  to  get  them  on 
the  long-distance  'phone;  but  the  Conven- 
tion wire  is  still  busy.  They  ought  to  get  to 
balloting  pretty  soon." 

"  Who  got  this  story?  "  asked  another  re- 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

porter,  just  down  from  Harlem.  "  Carring- 
ton,"  answered  someone.  Carrington,  pre- 
tending not  to  hear,  was  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  with  his  feet  on  the  table,  very  much 
as  the  older  men  sit  after  writing  their  big 
stories.  Others  had  written  The  Story  of 
other  days,  but  few  of  them  had  ever  felt  the 
managing  editor  lean  over  them  while  writ- 
ing, and  say,  "  Good  work,  my  boy!  "  and 
pat  them  on  the  back.  It  was  at  this  point 
that  Van  Cise,  the  city  editor,  looking  ex- 
cited, came  running  down  the  room  toward 
Carrington.  Close  behind  him  came  Mr. 
Reed  with  a  scared  look  on  his  face,  a  tele- 
gram in  his  hand.  "  Mr.  Carrington,"  the 
latter  began,  "  did  you  ask  him  that  question 
alone?  Did  you?" 

Carrington  looked  up  puzzled.  The  man- 
aging editor's  voice  was  more  nervous  than 
he  had  ever  heard  it  before. 

Van  Cise  interrupted  vigorously: 
"  Quick!  did  you?  The  Secretary  of  State 
— Damn  it,  say  something!  " 

Young  Carrington  was  wondering  what 

there  was  to  be  excited  about.     "  Alone? 

Oh,  why — yes,  sir;  I  asked  that  question  all 

by  myself."    He  smiled  up  good-naturedly. 

146 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

"  Good !  "  exclaimed  the  city  editor,  slap- 
ping the  desk.  "  Why  didn't  you  say  so 
before?  Then,  Mr.  Reed,  it  must  be  a  beat, 
sir." 

But  Reed,  looking  closely  at  Carrington, 
only  said,  "  This  is  all  pat,  then?  Read  that." 
His  tone  was  gentle,  as  though  talking  to  a 
scared  child.  "Quick;  this  is  important." 
Carrington  saw  his  hand  tremble  as  he  held 
out  the  telegram. 

The  cub  reporter  took  his  feet  down  from 
the  table.  "  Why — why,  no  sir,"  he  said, 
getting  up,  "  I  didn't  have  any  private  inter- 
view." 

Reed  simply  stared  at  him,  but  Van  Cise 
exclaimed,  "  What !  you  just  now  said " 

"  No,  I  said  I  asked  that  question  by  my- 
self— on  my  own  hook,  that  is.  Why,  the 
others  were  all  right  there.  I  thought " 

"All  right  there!"  exclaimed  Van  Cise. 
Reed  dropped  his  hand  to  his  side,  and  be- 
gan to  blink  and  smile  weakly. 

"Good  Lord!"  groaned  Hopper.  The 
rest  of  the  room  were  gathering  round  the 
group,  and  looked  from  Reed  to  Carring- 
ton. Van  Cise  shouted  at  the  cub,  two  feet 
147 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

away  from  him:  "Young  man,  see  here, 
did  you  or  did  you  not  quote  the  Secretary 
of  State  correctly?  This  means  a  good  deal 
to  us." 

"  Well,  look  at  my  notes."  He  held  them 
up  for  everybody,  looking  round  for  sym- 
pathy; but  there  was  none. 

"  Oh,  damn  your  notes !  Did  you,  or  did 
you  not,  quote  him  correctly?  " 

"  Why,  I  thought  you " 

"  Never  mind  what  you  thought." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is " 

"  Did  you,  or  did  you  not,  quote  him  cor- 
rectly? "  thundered  Van  Cise. 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say — "  returned  Carring- 
ton,  his  voice  breaking  in  the  middle,  "  is 
that  I  sat  right  next  to  him  and  wrote  ex- 
actly what  he  said  to  me,  word  for  word,  and 
if  the  other  papers  missed  it,  that's  not  my 
funeral.  And  you  can't  get  me  to  acknowl- 
edge anything  else,  no  matter  what  you 
say." 

This  was  just  what  Reed,  and  Van  Cise, 
and  all  the  staff  wanted  to  hear,  although 
they  did  not  look  it.  Reed  was  still  smiling 
limply. 

148 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

"  If  it  isn't  so,  I'll  resign,"  added  the  cub, 
in  a  lower  tone. 

"  We  know  that,"  said  Van  Cise,  and  one 
man  laughed  and  stopped  abruptly. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Van,"  said  Reed,  in  a 
dreadful  whisper,  "  it  may  come  out  all  right. 
Now,  Carrington  " — everyone  was  listening 
intently — "  did  the  other  reporters  hear  you 
ask  that  question;  were  they  paying  atten- 
tion?" 

The  cub  reporter  waited  while  the  clock 
ticked  three  times.  "  Why,  come  to  think 
of  it,  they  were  laughing  at  something  just 
then;  but  I  was  not  paying  much  attention 
to  them.  That  was  not  what  I  was  sent 
there " 

"  Boys,"  said  Reed,  gently,  "  it  may  come 
out  all  right."  The  rest  of  the  room  looked 
at  each  other.  "  Now,  Mr.  Carrington,  you 
run  up  to  the  hotel  and  get  your  interview 
confirmed.  Here's  the  proof.  Ask  whether 
it's  right  or  wrong.  Hopper,  you  go  with 
him;  run."  Then,  turning  to  the  Make-up 
Editor,  "  Stop  the  presses  until  we  hear  from 
them."  This  showed  how  badly  rattled  was 
the  calm-looking  managing  editor.  The 
149 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

Make-up  Editor  looked  at  him  and  said, 
"They  are  running  now,  sir;  we're  out  on 
the  street  already."  The  newsboys'  voices 
could  be  heard  through  the  open  windows. 

"  Here's  the  flimsy  story,"  said  a  copy- 
reader,  ripping  open  an  envelope  which  a 
boy  had  just  brought  in.  "  Late,  of  course." 

"  What  does  it  say?  "  asked  Reed.  The 
copy-reader  shook  his  head.  "  It  does  not 
back  us  up,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  Reed,  who 
skimmed  over  the  type-written  words, 
rumpled  up  the  tissue-paper  and  dropped  it 
on  the  floor.  "  If  this  had  only  come  just 
five  minutes  ago,"  he  moaned.  "  Van  Cise," 
he  whispered,  very  gravely,  "  do  you  realize 
that  if  our  story  is  not  confirmed " 

"  Why,  we've  lost  our  beat,"  said  the  City 
Editor,  "  and  your  office." 

"  Some  of  us  will  lose  a  great  deal  more 
than  that,"  said  Mr.  Reed,  sinking  into  a 
chair.  He  meant  his  reputation  as  an  honest 
man. 

Up  at  the  Polo  Grounds  the  New  Yorks 

had  tied  the  Baltimores  in  the  ninth  inning. 

Down  in  the  Street,  Chicago  Gas  had  closed 

three    points    higher    than    it    was    before 

150 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

luncheon.  Over  in  the  criminal  part  of  the 
Supreme  Court  the  jury  had  come  in  at  last 
and  said  solemnly,  "  Murder  in  the  first  de- 
gree." But  along  the  Row  The  Evening  Star 
had  quietly  appeared  with  a  big  beat  in  its 
last  edition,  and  all  the  other  afternoon 
papers  were  sad  and  excited  about  it.  But 
none  of  them  was  half  so  sad  at  being  beaten 
as  The  Star  was  at  beating  them.  And  of 
The  Star  staff  no  one  felt  worse  than  the 
young  author  of  the  beat.  Unless  it  was 
Reed. 

i 

A  long  half-hour  had  passed.  Every 
newspaper  along  the  Row  had  sent  men  up 
to  the  hotel  to  get  the  Secretary  of  State  to 
affirm  or  deny  The  Star's  beat.  Holliday 
might  be  nominated  at  any  moment.  So 
might  Wolf.  Telegrams  were  flying  back 
and  forth.  The  Secretary  of  State  had  re- 
ceived a  bushel. 

Although  the  last  edition  of  The  Star  was 
out  long  ago,  no  one  in  the  office  had  gone 
home,  not  even  the  women. 

"  Any  word  from  Hopper  yet? "  asked 
Reed.  He  had  stopped  making  jagged 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

marks  on  copy-paper  now  and  was  pacing 
up  and  down  the  room  instead. 

"  No,"  replied  Van  Cise,  ringing  off  and 
leaving  the  telephone  closet  open  behind 
him.  "  They  haven't  been  able  to  get  any- 
where near  the  old  man." 

"  Well,  why  not?  " 

"  Sends  out  word  that  he  gave  one  inter- 
view to-day  with  the  express  understanding 
that  he  would  be  left  alone  the  rest  of  the 
time." 

"What's  he  doing?" 

"  Still  closeted  with  Judge  Devery  and 
Colonel  Hancock." 

"Well,  can't  they  get  him  to  say  some- 
thing about  our  interview?  He  has  surely 
seen  it  by  this  time." 

"  Hopper  says  they've  tried  to  bribe  the 
Secretary's  stenographer;  tried  sending 
American  District  Telegraph  boys  with 
sealed  messages;  tried  every  scheme  they 
can  think  of.  The  place  is  full  of  reporters. 
The  morning  papers  are  taking  it  up  too, 
now " 

"  Yes,"  said  Reed,  his  foolish  smile  reap- 
pearing, "  and  they'll  make  a  big  story  of  it 
if  our  news  proves  to  be  wrong." 
152 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

"  Hopper  says  most  of  them  think  that  we 
had  an  exclusive  interview  some  time  to-day 
and  sent  Carrington  up  for  the  general  in- 
terview as  a  blind.  It  was  just  like  the  kid  to 
let  us  in  for  this." 

"  What  does  the  kid  say?  " 

"  Still  sticks  to  it,  Hopper  says,  and  keeps 
showing  him  his  ragged-edge  notes." 

"  Say,  come  here,  Van,"  said  Reed. 

A  boy  had  just  come  in  bearing  copies  of 
an  extra  edition  of  The  Evening  Earth.  In 
the  first  column,  corresponding  to  the  posi- 
tion of  Carrington's  beat,  was  a  head-line 
made  up  of  the  single  word  "  CANARD," 
and  the  gist  of  the  story  beneath  it  was  that 
The  Star  was  a  liar,  and  that  The  Earth 
could  prove  it.  Everyone  gathered  around 
the  several  copies. 

Van  Cise  whistled.  "  They  must  have 
hustled  this  through  in  a  hurry,"  he  said. 

"  Say,  there's  an  editorial  inside,"  the 
telegraph  editor  remarked. 

"Shut  up!"  said  Van  Cise.  Then  to 
Reed,  "  Never  mind  looking  at  that  now, 
please,  old  man." 

Reed,  who  had  turned  his  back  to  them, 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

said,  "  Oh,  I've  seen  it,"  and  turned  around. 
"  There's  no  mistaking  what  they  want  peo- 
ple to  think  of  me.  It's  quite  explicit."  He 
was  wondering  how  many  people  would  read 
it.  A  good  many.  Carrington  up  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  read  it.  Hopper  made  him 
read  it  twice. 

One  of  the  copy-readers  whispered,  "  It 
looks  like  a  private  tip  from  head-quarters; 
they  wouldn't  dare  risk  a  libel  suit  by  such 
accusations  against  Reed,  if  they  didn't  have 
a  denial  from  the  Secretary  of  State  himself." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Van  Cise.  "  There 
hasn't  been  time  since  we  came  out." 

"  No,  but  someone  at  the  Convention  may 
have  got  him  on  the  long-distance  wire  half 
an  hour  ago  and  then  have  rung  up  The 
Earth  and  given  them  the  tip  exclusively." 

The  telephone  bell  whirred  and  Van  Cise 
ran  into  the  box  before  the  boy  could  reach 
it,  and  a  moment  later  his  loud  voice  came 
echoing  out:  "For  Heaven's  sake,  Reed, 
come  here — there,  you  take  this  one;  I'll 
switch  on  by  the  other  one." 

"  Hello,"  called  Reed,  "  Yes,  hello,  hello, 
Hopper — (keep  out,  Central) — go  on,  Hop- 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

per. — You  say  he  is  going  to  give — oh,  has 
given  another  interview;  well,  quick,  what 
did  he  say? — gathered  all  the  reporters  in  his5 
room,  eh?  well,  go  on — yes — had  the  inter- 
view read?  Oh,  I  understand,  from  stenog- 
rapher's notes.  Go  on — what?  what's  that 
last?  No,  before  that — oh, — yes — yes — no, 
really? — what! — Good  Heavens!  go  on — 
(Say,  Van  Cise,  do  you  hear  that?)" 

Van  Cise,  five  feet  away,  in  the  other  tele- 
phone box,  answered  by  way  of  several  miles 
of  wire,  "  Yes,  yes,  yes  (go  on,  Hopper)." 

Hopper  went  on :  "  Well,  first,  you  un- 
derstand, Young,  the  stenographer,  got 
down  to  the  question,  'What  is  the  cause  of 
the  administration's  antagonism  toward  Holli- 
dayf  and  the  answer  was  'I'm  not  aware 
that  any  antagonism  has  been  manifested 
toward  General  Hoi' — Hello?  Hello  there? 
Can  you  hear?  " 

"  Yes,  shut  up,  go  on." 

— "  '  toward  General  Holliday  on  the  part 
of  the  administration.'  Then  several  of  the 
fellows  who  were  there  at  the  first  interview 
nodded  their  heads  and  said,  'There!  what 
did  I  tell  you?  That's  the  cause  of  the  young 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

fellow's  misunderstanding.'  But  up  jumps 
that  Earth  man,  Munson — you  know  Mun- 
son — and  shouts, '  Misunderstanding?  Hell! 
it  was  misrepresentation,  malicious  mis- 
representation, the  worst  trick  ever  perpe- 
trated in  Park  Row ' — something  of  that 
sort,  and  was  starting  out  to  telephone  down 
to  The  Earth  about  it.  Bu.  just  then  the  boy 
here  jumps  up,  '  Hold  on  there,  Munson — 
wait  a  minute,  you  fellows  (his  voice  got  aw- 
fully shrill),  the  next  question,  sir!  Have 
him  read  the  next  question — the  very  next 
question.'  The  Secretary  of  State  waves  his 
hand  for  silence  and  smiles  a  little.  He  had 
a  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand  all  the  time,  but 
I  didn't  know  what  it  was  then.  '  Gentle- 
men,' he  said,  '  that  seems  reasonable ;  let 
us  finish  the  interview.  Young  will  read  the 
next  question,  and,  gentlemen,  we  are  all 
likely  to  make  mistakes;  but  my  stenogra- 
pher was  never  known  to  do  so;  I  agree  to 
stand  by '  " 

"Go  on!  go  on!"  Reed  interrupted. 
"Give  us  the  facts." 

"  Well,  Young  cleared  his  throat,  and 
everybody  quieted  down.  '  Question,'  he 
156 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

reads,  '  What  I  should  like  to  know,  sir,  is, 
Will  Holliday  have  the  support  of  the  admin- 
istration if  he  is  nominated?  Will  he? 
Answer:  'He  would  have  the  heartiest  sup- 
port the  administration  could  give  -  '  " 

"What!"  cried  Van  Cise.  Then  from 
Reed,  "  Ah,  say  that  over  again,  Hopper." 

Hopper  repeated  it  and  then  continued, 
"  Well,  then,  the  boy  jumps  up,  and  shouts, 
'There,  there,  there!  What  did  I  tell  you! 
Now,  will  you  stop  jumping  on  me,  Hop- 
per! '  How  about  it,  eh?  Well,  you  ought 
to've  seen  that  sick-looking  crowd.  They 
hadn't  anything  to  say.  They  only  looked 
at  the  kid  and  then  at  each  other,  while  Car- 
rington  and  I  put  on  our  hats  to  go,  grin- 
ning back  at  them.  The  Secretary  of  State 
was  guying  them,  too,  on  the  folly  of  being 
too  certain.  What?  " 

"Say,"  interrupted  Reed,  "didn't  either 
of  you  get  the  Convention  on  the  long-dis- 
tance telephone?  "  The  managing  editor's 
instincts  were  coming  back. 

"  No,  but  -  " 


"Well,  why  -  " 

"Wait   a  minute.     Then  the  Secretary 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

waves  the  piece  of  paper  in  his  hand,  and 
says,  '  One  moment,  gentlemen,  before  you 
go,  allow  me  to  read  you  this  message  just 
received  from  the  Convention.'  Then  he 
read,  '  Holliday,  175;  Wolf,  132.  I  bid  you 
all  good  afternoon,'  he  said,  and  bowed  us 
out.  So,  you  see  his  game,  don't  you?  the 
old  fox  has  been  holding  off  confirming  or 

denying  our  interview  until " 

"  Hopper,"  interrupted  Reed,  "  report 
here  at  once;  we'll  get  out  a  special  edi- 
tion on  this — Begin  your  copy  on  the  way 
down  in  the  train — A  good  detailed  story 
about  the  interview,  and  how  it  was  con- 
firmed and  all  that.  We'll  write  the  pol- 
itics end  of  it  down  here.  The  Convention 
story  is  coming  in  over  the  wire  now.  Make 
your  best  time — and  say,  bring  Carrington 
along  with  you ;  we  want  to  see  him.  Good- 
by."  And  they  both  rang  off. 

In  Hopper's  story  he  referred  interest- 
ingly to  what  The  Earth  had  published 
(which,  by  the  way,  meant  a  big  job  for 
some  lawyers  next  month),  quoted  all  the 
Secretary's  words,  dramatically  described 
158 


The  Great  Secretary-of-State  Interview 

the  reading  of  the  stenographer's  notes  and 
had  a  lot  of  fun  with  the  old  reporters,  who 
let  a  mere  boy  flick  a  big  beat  out  from  un- 
der their  very  noses. 

Just  after  the  paper  went  to  press,  Mr. 
Reed  came  down  to  where  the  cub  was  stand- 
ing with  a  wide  grin  on  his  face.  In  one 
hand  the  editor  held  a  telegram.  He  put 
the  other  on  Rufus's  shoulder  and  said, 
"  Mr.  Carrington,  this  is  the  second  tele- 
gram from  the  Convention  I  have  shown 
you  to-day." 

It  read,  "  Please  accept  my  heartfelt 
thanks  for  bringing  me  the  nomination. 
John  H.  Holliday." 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  Managing  Editor 
added,  "  but  that  it  ought  to  have  been  sent 
to  you  in  the  first  place."  However,  Rufus 
got  something  at  the  end  of  the  week  which 
he  appreciated  just  as  much. 


159 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

'"THE  telegraph  editor  with  the  bald  head 
was  hanging  his  umbrella  on  the  gas- 
jet  over  his  desk,  so  that  no  one  would  walk 
away  with  it  by  mistake  or  otherwise.  The 
copy-readers  were  taking  off  their  coats  and 
cuffs  and  sitting  down  to  their  day's  work. 
Nearly  all  the  reporters  had  arrived;  and 
one  of  them  had  already  been  sent  down  to 
the  weather  bureau  to  find  out  when  the 
rain  would  stop,  while  another  was  on  his 
way  uptown  on  the  elevated  railroad  to  the 
home  of  a  prominent  citizen  who  had  died 
during  the  night,  just  too  late  for  the  morn- 
ing papers.  Others  were  seated  along  the 
rows  of  tables  waiting  for  assignments,  and 
finishing  the  perusal  of  the  morning  papers, 
which  was  part  of  their  business.  Murdock, 
arriving  late,  came  into  the  room  quietly, 
taking  off  his  coat,  but  the  city  editor,  on 
'63 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

the  way  from  the  telephone-closet,  dashed 
down  upon  him: 

"  If  you  can't  get  down  here  before  8.30, 
you'd  better  not  come  at  all.  This  is  no 
morning  paper.  Don't  take  off  your  coat. 
Run  up  to  the  Tombs  Police  Court  and  see 
if  you  can't  get  something  good  for  the  first 
edition." 

That  was  what  the  city  editor  said  all  in 
one  breath,  faster  than  you  can  read  half  of 
it,  then  hurried  up  to  the  desk  and  ham- 
mered the  bell  six  times  in  rapid  succession 
with  the  open  palm  of  his  hand,  each  stroke 
coming  down  quicker  and  harder  than  the 
one  before  it,  until  the  last  was  but  a  dead, 
ringless  "  thump."  And  when  Tommy  or 
Johnny  came  running  to  the  desk,  the  city 
editor  snarled  in  his  quick,  tense  voice : 

"  Here,  if  you  boys  can't  answer  this  bell 
quicker,  you'll  all  be  fired.  Run  upstairs 
with  this  copy." 

Johnny  took  it  meekly  but  quickly,  and 
ran  (until  out  of  the  editor's  sight)  up  to  the 
composing-room,  put  the  copy  on  the  fore- 
man's desk,  then  walked  over  to  the  inky- 
armed  galley-boy  and  confided,  "  Maguire's 
164 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

chewing  the  rag  again."    That  was  the  way 
the  day  began,  a  little  after  eight  o'clock. 

It  usually  began  in  some  such  way.  But 
this  one  was  not  to  end  as  usual. 

Maguire  had  no  business  to  be  so  sarcas- 
tic with  Murdock  for  being  a  few  minutes 
late,  especially  as  Murdock  was  usually  one 
of  the  first  men  down  in  the  morning,  and 
Maguire  knew  it.  So  a  few  minutes  later 
when  he  turned  to  Brown,  one  of  the  other 
reporters,  he  said,  in  a  very  gentle  tone,  as 
if  asking  a  great  favor  of  him : 

"  Say,  Brown,  take  that  story  off  the 
'phone  for  me,  will  you  please? — 'bout  a  bull 
that's  broken  loose  on  the  way  to  a  slaugh- 
ter-house uptown — been  terrorizing  people 
in  Fifty-ninth  Street,  near  the  river — make 
half  a  column  of  it — vivid  and  exciting;  you 
know  how  we  want  it." 

Brown  hurried  into  the  telephone-closet 
saying,  "  Yes,  sir." 

That  was  very  pleasant  for  Brown,  but 
did  not  sooth  Murdock,  who,  by  this  time, 
was  several  blocks  away,  hurrying  up  Cen- 
tre Street.  However,  he  did  not  need  much 
165 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

sympathy,  because  he  was  lucky  enough  to 
get  a  beautiful  story  of  an  Italian-quarter 
stabbing,  which  turned  out  to  be  a  murder, 
and  so  proved  to  be  worth  three-quarters  of 
a  column,  and  that  is  a  very  good  amount  of 
space  to  get  into  the  first  edition  of  an  after- 
noon paper  that  is  out  on  the  street  at  10.30 

A.M. 

But  Maguire,  the  city  editor,  flared  up 
and  then  had  remorse  again  half  a  dozen 
times  before  the  first  edition  came  out.  The 
telephone-boy  had  shouted  up  to  the  desk, 
"  Wintringer's  on  the  'phone,  Mr.  Ma- 
guire." 

Wintringer  was  the  police  head-quarters 
man.  He  had  a  lot  of  small  fire  and  acci- 
dent stories  of  the  early  morning  and  that 
part  of  the  night  not  covered  by  the  morning 
papers. 

The  weather  was  damp,  and  the  connec- 
tion was  bad.  "Aw!  for  Heaven's  sake, 
Wintringer,"  screamed  Maguire,  "  why 
don't  you  open  your  mouth  when  you  talk?  " 
Then  a  moment  later,  "  Don't  yell  so  loud. 
I'm  not  deaf."  And  finally  in  a  wail,  "  Oh, 
7  can't  make  that  out.  Write  your  stories 
1 66 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

and  send  'em  down  by  a  messenger!  "  Then 
he  rang  off,  dashed  out  of  the  telephone- 
closet,  tearing  up  the  notes  he  had  tried  to 
take,  hurried  up,  scowling,  to  the  desk, 
where  he  began  ringing  his  bell  again  and 
calling  to  one  of  the  boys  for  a  certain  set  of 
proofs,  and  sent  two  men  out  on  assign- 
ments while  waiting  for  the  proofs  to  come. 

A  little  later  Henderson,  the  copy-reader, 
who  was  handling  Murdock's  murder  story, 
wrote  a  head-line  for  it  with  twelve  letters 
when,  in  that  style  of  head,  there  were  but 
eleven  spaces,  as  everyone  in  the  office 
should  know,  as  Maguire  reminded  him,  and 
also  told  him  what  he  thought  of  him  for 
such  a  blunder. 

Then  the  new  reporter,  who  had  been  sent 
down  to  Cortlandt  Street  Ferry  a  half  hour 
before  to  find  out  about  the  collision  of  a 
yacht  with  a  ferry-boat  in  the  fog,  ran  up 
to  the  desk  with  an  air  of  great  importance 
and  began  to  inform  Maguire  that  "  several 
women  fainted,  children  screamed,  a  big- 
crowd  gathered,"  etc.,  as  usual. 

The  city  editor,  who  had  heard  details  of 
that  sort  all  his  newspaper  life,  and  who 
167 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

wanted  the  news,  interrupted  with  a  ques- 
tion, snapped  out  like  the  crack  of  a  whip: 

"  Whose  steam-yacht  was  it?  " 

"  The  steam-yacht  belongs  to — the  name 
of  the  owner  of  the  steam-yacht — why,  let's 
see,  er " 

"Aw!  Run  back  and  find  out."  Then 
turning  to  another  man,  and  forgetting  all 
about  the  yacht,  the  city  editor  said,  smil- 
ing eagerly,  "  Well,  would  she  talk?  "  This 
was  to  the  reporter  who  had  gone  uptown  to 
try  to  get  an  interview  with  the  woman  who 
had  been  a  widow  for  four  hours,  and  whose 
husband  had  been  important  enough  to  re- 
quire a  column  and  a  half  "  obit."  The 
obituary  itself  was  already  in  type,  having 
been  written  months  before  the  prominent 
citizen  became  ill. 

The  reporter  answered  Mr.  Maguire's 
question,  mournfully.  "  Nope,  wouldn't 
talk.  Still  prostrated." 

"  Too  bad,"  said  the  city  editor,  scowl- 
ing, for  it  would  have  been  good  stuff. 
"  Wait  a  minute,"  he  added,  "  take  a  run 
down  to  Wall  Street.  She  has  a  brother 
down  there  some  place.  If  he  isn't  in  his 
168 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

office,  find  out  where  some  of  the  other  rela- 
tives are.  We've  got  to  have  something 
about  the  funeral  arrangements,  at  least. 
Make  your  best  time,  please."  The  "  please  " 
was  added,  perhaps,  because  he  now  remem- 
bered what  he  had  said  to  the  new  young 
reporter,  who  was  hurrying  wildly  down  to 
the  ferry,  wondering  how  in  the  world  he  was 
expected  to  find  out  the  name  of  the  owner 
of  a  yacht  which  was  now  three  miles  down 
the  bay. 

Then  it  came  Brown's  turn  to  catch  it. 
Brown  was  the  one  who  had  been  asked  so 
politely  to  take  the  bull  story  off  the  'phone. 
When  you  take  a  story  off  the  telephone 
you  are  not  paid  at  space  rates  but  by  time, 
that  is,  so  much — or  rather  so  little — for  an 
hour  or  a  fraction  of  it.  Of  course  Brown 
could  not  take  more  than  half  an  hour  if  he 
wanted  to,  because  the  story  was  to  go  in  the 
first  edition  with  a  spread  head,  but  he  did 
not  want  to.  In  fact  he  was  anxious  to  finish 
it  quickly,  so  that  he  might  be  sent  out  on 
some  other  story  before  all  the  good  ones 
were  assigned.  So  he  hurried  through 
the  work,  stepped  up  to  the  desk,  and 
169 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

tossed  the  story  down  on  a  pile  of  other 
copy. 

Maguire  snatched  it  up,  ran  his  experi- 
enced eye  over  it,  and  then  rushed  down  the 
aisle  after  Brown.  His  voice  went  up  an  oc- 
tave or  two:  "  You  haven't  more  than  three 
sticks  here!  I  told  you  distinctly  to  write  a 
half  column  of  vivid  description — how  the 
bull  broke  away,  ran  down  the  street,  terror- 
ized everybody — and  look  at  this  thing — 
write  it  all  over  again — just  as  if  you  had 
seen  it  yourself." 

"  But  I  thought " 

"  Oh, you  thought!"  snapped  back  the  city 
editor,  as  he  wheeled  toward  the  desk  again. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Brown,  meekly,  and  be- 
gan rewriting  the  story. 

A  little  later  Maguire  came  down  and  said, 
gently :  "  Say,  old  man,  suppose  you  wind 
that  thing  up  right  there,  will  you?  I  guess 
that  covers  it.  I've  a  big  story  waiting  for 
you." 

And  when  Brown  brought  his  copy  up  to 
the  desk,  Maguire  bowed  and  said 
"  Thanks,"  before  beginning  instructions  as 
to  the  big  story. 

170 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

Now  all  this  was  early  in  the  day,  before 
the  first  edition  went  to  press.  The  busy, 
nervous  minutes  rushed  by,  the  electric  fans 
buzzed,  the  reporters  hurried  in  and  out,  the 
copy-readers'  blue  pencils  wriggled,  the 
typesetting  machines  clicked,  the  various 
editions  were  run  off,  the  papers  were  hustled 
away  in  wagons  and  cried  on  the  street,  and 
the  strain  on  Maguire's  nerves  and  temper 
kept  increasing.  It  was  not  until  the  last  story 
was  set  up,  the  last  head  written,  the  last 
batch  of  proofs  sent  back  O.  K'd.,  and  the 
forms  were  locked  up,  the  plates  cast,  and 
the  big  presses  put  in  motion,  with  the  great 
rolls  of  paper  revolving,  and  the  printed, 
folded  sheets  of  the  welcome  last  edition 
came  fluttering  down  upon  the  "  delivery  " 
at  the  rate  of  six  hundred  a  minute,  that  the 
city  editor  had  time  to  take  a  calm,  full 
breath.  Then  he  stopped  looking  annoyed, 
and  cooled  off  from  a  city  editor  to  a  hu- 
man being.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  put 
his  feet  on  the  desk,  and  smoked  luxuriously. 

He  always  leaned  back  in  this  way  with 
liis  feet  on  the  desk  when  the  last  edition 
went  to  press.  Since  waking  and  reaching 
171 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

out  of  his  bedroom-door  for  the  morning 
paper  (which  he  propped  up  on  the  bureau 
and  read  in  eager  snatches  while  hurriedly 
dressing),  this  was  his  first  moment  of  free- 
dom from  strain  and  anxiety;  and  the  sense 
of  relaxation  and  relief  was  delicious.  For 
his  day's  work  was  over,  and  there  it  was,  all 
before  him,  a  finished  result  in  black  and 
white.  Even  if  he  wanted  to  change  it  he 
could  not,  so  there  was  nothing  for  him  to 
worry  over. 

But  he  often  did  worry,  and  it  was  very 
seldom  by  reason  of  finding  that  some  other 
afternoon  paper  had  beaten  him  on  impor- 
tant news,  because  such  things  seldom  hap- 
pened with  Maguire.  It  was  simply  because 
he  was  a  good  deal  of  a  brute  in  the  way  he 
treated  his  men  and  knew  it.  Some  city 
editors  are  brutes  and  don't  know  it.  They 
don't  worry. 

This  afternoon  the  first  thing  he  saw  was 
that  head-line  of  Murdock's  murder  story, 
and  then  he  remembered  what  he  had  said 
to  old,  patient  Henderson,  his  most  faithful 
copy-reader,  who  never  made  any  excuses, 
and  had  lots  of  feelings.  That  started  Ma- 
guire to  thinking. 

172 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

He  remembered  how  it  was  in  his  younger 
days;  he  could  not  stand  being  treated  in 
that  arrogant  fashion  by  city  editors,  and 
once  he  had  lost  his  place  on  a  certain  paper 
because  he  could  not  stand  it.  He  could 
recall  the  scene  very  vividly,  and  how  he  had 
enjoyed  telling,  the  bullying  city  editor  just 
what  he  unreservedly  thought  of  him.  The 
tale  is  still  handed  down  in  that  office.  And 
now  he  was  very  much  the  same  sort  of 
bully  himself.  He  had  not  expected  to  turn 
out  that  way.  It  seemed  too  bad. 

He  wondered  what  his  men  unreservedly 
thought  of  him.  To  be  sure  he  was  always 
liberal  about  letting  them  have  days  off,  and 
when  they  had  been  ill  told  them,  in  a  blush- 
ing, self-conscious  manner,  that  he  was  glad 
to  see  them  back.  Also  he  was  obliging 
about  lending  money  in  the  office,  and  those 
who  were  slow  pay  he  never  dunned — which 
in  newspaper  men  is  a  rare  trait.  And  when- 
ever any  of  the  men  died,  which  is  not  a  rare 
occurrence  in  a  newspaper  office,  he  was  the 
one  to  get  up  the  subscription  list  for  the 
flowers,  or,  as  it  more  often  happened,  for 
the  widow's  rent.  But  he  had  an  idea  that 
173  • 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

the  men  considered  all  these  acts  as  mere- 
ly conscience-salve.  Indeed,  he  some- 
times thought  so,  himself,  and  felt  quite 
ashamed  about  it — after  the  paper  went  to 
press. 

But  after  the  paper  went  to  press  he  had 
little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  other  men  in 
the  office.  The  editors  of  the  other  depart- 
ments all  had  their  intimate  friends,  and  none 
of  them  was  jovial  and  familiar  with  him. 
They  did  not  say,  "  Hurry  up  and  put  on 
your  coat,  I'll  wait  for  you  down-stairs,"  to 
him;  they  treated  him  with  a  great  deal  of 
polite  respect,  and  said  "  Good-morning, 
Maguire,"  and  "  Good-night,  Maguire,"  and 
but  little  else.  Maguire  did  not  know  how 
to  make  advances  himself.  He  did  not  know 
how  to  do  anything  except  get  out  a  rattling 
good  newspaper,  and  he  lived  all  alone,  now 
that  his  wife  was  dead,  and  the  paper  was  all 
he  had  to  care  about.  Perhaps  that  was  the 
reason  he  cared  for  it  so  much. 

He  looked  around  at  the  men.    But  as  he 

looked  around,  two  of  the  reporters  at  a 

near-by  table  suddenly  stopped  talking.  One 

of  them  looked  up  at  the  ceiling;  the  other 

i74 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

began  to  read  something.  Maguire  felt  the 
color  come  into  his  face,  and  he  asked  him- 
self something  that  he  had  asked  himself 
several  times  of  late ;  but  this  he  decided  was 
absurd. 

He  looked  at  the  clock.  It  was  later  than 
he  had  thought,  and  yet  the  room  was  quite 
full  of  men.  Usually  it  was  nearly  empty  by 
this  time.  One  of  the  copy-readers  was  pass- 
ing by.  "  What  are  they  all  waiting  around 
so  late  for?"  Maguire  asked,  in  his  quick 
manner. 

The  copy-reader  turned  round  and  looked. 
"  Why,  so  they  are.  Well,  I  suppose  they're 
waiting  around  till  it  stops  raining." 

The  city  editor  knew  of  other  places 
along  Park  Row  more  congenial  to  news- 
paper men  to  wait  in  till  the  rain  stopped,  but 
he  said  nothing.  He  turned  his  back  to  the 
room  and  spread  out  the  paper  and  read  for 
two  minutes.  Then  he  said  to  himself, 
"  Well,  I  may  as  well  go  home."  He  arose, 
pulled  down  his  desk-top,  reached  up  for 
his  coat,  turned  around  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  the  whole  staff,  who  stood 
in  a  semicircle. 

175 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

For  a  moment  no  one  said  anything. 
Then  there  was  some  whispering  in  the  line, 
and  Henderson,  the  old  copy-reader,  stepped 
forward  toward  the  city  editor.  He  looked 
very  grave.  So  did  the  rest. 

For  a  newspaper  man,  Henderson  was 
very  deliberate.  He  cleared  his  throat. 

Instantly  Maguire  cleared  his  throat,  too, 
and  said:  "Well,  what's  this?"  He  was 
even  more  amazed  than  he  looked. 

"  Mr.  Maguire,"  Henderson  began,  look- 
ing him  straight  in  the  face,  "  it  becomes  my 
duty  to  tell  you  that  a  committee  has  been 
appointed  to  see  to  your  case." 

Again  Maguire  snapped  out,  "What's 
this? "  and  his  face  was  livid.  He  half 
arose  from  his  chair,  then  sat  down  again  as 
if  he  wanted  to  show  them  he  was  cool. 

"  A  committee,"  Henderson  went  on, 
carefully,  "  and  as  chairman,  I  am  now  ad- 
dressing you  on  behalf  of  it,  and  in  the  pres- 
ence of  those  who  appointed  it."  He  looked 
around  at  the  others  as  if  asking,  "  Isn't  that 
right?  "  He  took  another  step  forward.  He 
was  playing  with  his  watch-chain  with  one 
hand,  and  held  the  other  behind  his  back. 
176 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

Henderson  seemed  to  feel  assured  that  he 
was  right.  "  You  may  not  be  aware  of  it, 
but  you  have  been  watched  for  the  past  few 
weeks — systematically  watched.  I  regret  to 
say  that  the  committee  cannot  report  that 
they  altogether  approve  of  your  conduct." 

Maguire  sprang  out  of  his  chair.  "  See 
here!  That'll  do.  I've  had  enough  of  this. 
If  you  have  anything  to  say  to  me  personally 
you  can  call  at  my  home  or  meet  me  on  the 
street;  but  here,  in  this  office,  I  want  you  to 
understand " 

Henderson  waved  his  hand.  Those  be- 
hind him  began  to  whisper  something  to 
him.  "  One  moment  please,  Mr.  Maguire," 
he  said.  "  It's  in  your  official  capacity  that 
we  are  addressing  you,  sir.  There  are  sev- 
eral things  that  we  have  to  find  fault  with 
you  about.  One  of  these,  as  I  was  about  to 
say,  is  the  altogether  unreasonable,  the — 
what  shall  I  say — yes,  unreasonable  way  in 
which  you  guard  the  desk,  stay  by  the  desk, 
all  the  time,  as  though  you  thought  some- 
body was  going  to  hurt  it."  Henderson  was 
talking  more  rapidly  now.  "  You  are  the 
first  to  come  in  the  morning  and  you  stay 
177 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

here  all  day,  and  you're  the  last  to  leave  at 
night.  You  don't  even  go  out  to  lunch. 
Why  don't  you  go  out  to  lunch?  "  Hender- 
son began  to  grin.  "  The  staff  wants  to 
know  why  in  thunder  you  don't  go  out  to 
lunch?"  He  now  brought  his  right  hand 
out  from  behind  his  back,  "  And  they  want 
me  to  ask  you  to  wear  this  thing  "  (there  was 
a  watch  in  Henderson's  hand  with  a  chain 
dangling  from  it).  "  They  have  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it's  because  you  don't  keep 
track  of  the  time.  They  say  you  are  about 
the  squarest  city  editor  in  Park  Row,  even 
though  you  do  flare  up  occasionally  and  get 
red  in  the  face.  And  you  see  "  (he  was 
sticking  the  watch  up  under  Maguire's  face) 
"  we  were  afraid  that  unless  you  went  out  to 
lunch  your  health  would  go  to  pieces  and 
you'd  lose  your  job,  and  then  we'd  get  a 
city  editor  that  we  couldn't  work  so  easily 
for  days  off  and — and,  well,  I  had  a  lot  more 
to  say  only  I'm  rattled  now — Here,  Maguire, 
take  it ;  and  after  this,  see  that  you  don't  for- 
get your  lunch  when  the  time  comes.  Par- 
don me,  boys,  for  falling  down  on  that 
speech." 

178 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

But  the  others  were  not  looking  at  Hen- 
derson. 

Maguire's  face  had  worn  several  sorts  of 
expressions,  and  now  it  had  none.  He  had 
reached  out  and  grasped  the  chain  in  the 
middle.  Now  he  stood  there  with  the  per- 
spiration pouring  down  his  face  and  looking 
like  a  little  boy  who  had  been  caught  doing 
something  bad. 

He  knew  the  whole  staff  was  looking  at 
him,  and  some  of  the  editors,  who  had  lin- 
gered to  see  the  fun.  The  office-boys  were 
there  too.  But  he  only  opened  the  back  of 
the  watch  and  exposed  the  shining  golden 
inside  case,  as  if  he  wanted  to  see  the  karat 
mark.  Then,  realizing  what  a  foolish  thing 
he  was  doing,  he  abruptly  laid  it  down  on  his 
desk  on  some  copy-paper.  He  knew  he  had 
to  say  something.  "  Well,  boys,"  he  began, 
looking  up  and  then  down  again,  "  I  don't 
believe  I  have  anything  to  say."  He  stood 
still  a  moment  looking  helpless.  Somebody 
coughed.  He  suddenly  realized  that  he  must 
seem  very  ungrateful,  and  he  opened  his 
mouth  and  said: 

"  Gentlemen."  Everyone  was  silent. 
179 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

"  This  is  a  very  pretty  watch."  Inwardly  he 
was  calling  himself  a  fool  for  that  remark. 
They  knew  that.  He  knew  they  did.  He 
mopped  his  brow.  "  I  thank  you,  boys.  I 
thank  you  all.  I'm  much  obliged."  He 
looked  as  if  he  hated  watches. 

Some  of  those  in  the  line  made  a  move  as 
if  to  wind  matters  up,  but  Maguire  had  just 
begun : 

"  I  tell  you,  boys,"  he  said  with  his  head 
on  one  side,  "  I  don't  deserve  it  at  all.  When 
I  think  of  the  way  I  treat  you  fellows  some- 
times— you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  That's  all  right,"  one  of  the  men  said, 
aloud. 

"  I  just  want  to  say  to  you  though,"  Ma- 
guire went  on,  "  that  one  gets  it  as  bad  as  the 
next  in  this  office."  He  grinned  a  little. 

"  That's  so,"  several  of  the  staff  said,  and 
again  there  was  the  movement  to  conclude, 
but  the  city  editor  evidently  thought  it 
would  be  anticlimaxical  to  stop  there,  and  he 
always  hated  a  story  to  fizzle  out  at  the  end. 
Besides,  he  had  more  to  say.  "  But  I  tell 
you,  boys  (his  voice  was  low  and  solemn 
now),  if  it  offends  you  sometimes  it's  noth- 
180 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

ing  to  the  way  it  hurts  me.  Every  time  I 
jump  on  one  of  you  fellows  it  rebounds  on 
me  with  redoubled  force.  Why,  sometimes, 
I  tell  you  what  it  is,  I  can't  get  to  sleep  at 
night  thinking  about  things  I've  said  during 
the  day." 

Everyone  of  the  staff  that  could  had 
turned  red,  and  a  number  that  thought  they 
could  not. 

Newspaper  men  can't  stand  much  of  this 
sort  of  thing,  but  none  of  them  had  sense 
enough  to  stop  him.  They  just  stood  there 
looking  silly  and  feeling  foolish,  and  they 
might  have  allowed  him  to  go  on  until  he 
had  made  them  wish  they  had  not  given  him 
a  watch,  if  an  impudent  office-boy  had  not 
broken  in  at  that  point.  "  T'ree  cheers  for 
Mr.  Maguire,"  cried  the  shrill  voice.  "  Hur- 
rah!" 

No  one  joined  in,  but  all  began  to  laugh, 
and  Maguire  laughed  too,  and  that  broke 
the  strain. 

Henderson  set  an  example  for  the  rest  by 
going  up  and  offering  his  hand  to  Maguire. 

The  city  editor  shook  it,  and  then  saying, 
"  Tell  the  boys  for  me,  will  you,  Henderson, 
181 


The  City  Editor's  Conscience 

please,"  he  picked  up  his  overcoat  and  anti- 
climaxically  skipped  out  of  the  room  and 
down  the  stairs  without  daring  to  look  at  one 
of  them. 

The  next  day  things  went  on  in  the  same 
way  as  ever,  apparently. 


182 


The   Cub  Reporter   and  the 
King  of  Spain 


The  Cub  Reporter    and    the 
King  of  Spain 

AMR.  KNOX  sat  swinging  a  pair  of  good 
legs  over  the  end  of  the  dock  at  the  foot 
of  East  Twenty-sixth  Street,  smoking  vile 
cigarettes  and  wishing  something  would 
happen.  Small  monotonous  waves  slapped 
the  green-coated  piles  below,  which  smelled 
oozy.  Out  in  the  channel  ferry-boats  and 
tugs  tooted  in  a  self-important  manner,  but 
Mr.  Knox  yawned  and  would  not  look  up  at 
them;  and  that  is  the  way  he  spent  most  of 
his  time. 

He  had  learned  that  when  it  was  flood- 
tide  the  incoming  Thirty-fourth  Street  ferry- 
boats headed  away  down  the  river  as  if  for 
his  dock,  just  as  the  patient  Twenty-third 
Streeters  pretended  to  want  to  land  above 
him  when  the  tide  was  pulling  out.  He  knew 
who  were  the  owners  of  the  steam-yachts 
185 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

anchoring  there  in  Kip's  Bay ;  and  he  could 
tell  many  of  the  harbor  tugs  and  all  the 
Sound  steamers  by  their  whistles.  That  was 
why  he  would  not  look  up  unless  he  heard  a 
new  voice  come  across  the  water.  All  this 
bored  him  exceedingly. 

Hamilton  J.  Knox  had  been  one  of  the 
great  men  of  his  day,  which  was  a  year  or 
two  ago,  when  in  college.  He  was  in  the 
World  now.  Therefore  he  was  not  even  a 
man,  it  seemed,  but  a  boy  learning  things 
about  the  relative  importance  of  the  inhab- 
itants of  this  planet  which  all  American 
youths  should  learn,  for  those  who  do  not 
usually  live  to  regret  it. 

But  the  contrast  in  this  boy's  case  was 
more  dramatic,  because  he  had  been  Ham- 
mie  Knox,  the  wondrous  half-back  of  the 
best  foot-ball  team  in  the  Western  Hemi- 
sphere, and  had  made  the  winning  run  of  the 
final  game  before  20,000  excited  people; 
and  this  was  the  greatest  romantic  glory 
given  to  man — at  that  time,  which  was 
shortly  before  the  Spanish  war.  He  had 
been  fondled  and  fussed  over  by  his  friends, 
and  pointed  out  and  stared  at  by  everyone 
186 


the  King  of  Spain 

else,  and  his  picture  was  printed,  four-col- 
umns wide,  in  the  newspaper  on  whose  staff 
he  was  now  one  of  the  least  important  re- 
porters, where  he  had  to  say  Sir  to  the  man 
who  had  respectfully  sought  the  favor  of  an 
interview  with  him  on  the  day  the  champion- 
ship was  won,  and  who  now  riddled  and  rid- 
iculed his  copy  and  seemed  not  to  appreci- 
ate the  significance  of  a  gold  foot-ball  worn 
on  the  watch-chain. 

Instead  of  letting  his  hair  grow  long  and 
travelling  around  the  country  in  a  special 
car  to  play  beautiful  foot-ball,  he  had  to  stay 
still  most  of  the  day  in  a  remote  corner  of  the 
dreary  edge  of  the  city  and  look  at  dead 
bodies.  These  were  brought  to  a  low,  ugly 
building  in  a  black  wagon,  which  unloaded 
quickly  and  then  trotted  off  up  Twenty- 
sixth  Street,  past  the  gray  gates  of  Bellevue 
Hospital,  after  more. 

When  they  first  gave  him  the  Morgue  and 
Coroner's  Office — they  told  him  it  was  an 
advance  to  have  a  regular  department — he 
used  to  stand  inside  the  receiving  room  and 
watch.  But  even  his  interest  in  dead  bodies 
had  died  now  that  they  had  become  part  of 
187 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

his  business.  So  usually  he  only  yawned 
and  called  out  from  his  seat  in  the  sun, 
"Anything  good,  Tom,"  without  stopping 
his  legs.  Tom,  the  driver,  generally  said, 
"  Naw,  only  a  floater  from  North  River," 
with  some  contempt,  for  Tom  was  blase;  a 
good  murder  was  what  he  appreciated,  an 
Italian  murder,  with  much  cutting. 

Murders  were  what  Knox  wanted,  too, 
murders  or  suicides  with  romantic  interest; 
but  when  it  was  a  good  story  the  police 
head-quarters  man  had  already  been  sent 
out  on  it,  or  else  some  of  the  crack  general- 
work  reporters,  while  Knox  was  left  to  fol- 
low up  the  dull  routine  part  of  it,  with  the 
other  Morgue  and  Coroner's  Office  men,  to 
find  out  when  the  inquest  was  to  be  held,  by 
which  more-or-less-Americanized  coroner, 
etc.;  then  to  come  back  to  the  monotonous 
Morgue  and  observe  the  people  who  came 
to  look  at  the  dead  face.  "  Watch  their  eyes 
when  the  cover  is  first  taken  off — maybe  you 
can  catch  the  murderer  yourself,"  said  the 
crack  reporter,  striding  off  impressively  with 
the  Central  Office  detectives.  But  such 
delights  never  came  to  Hamilton  Knox, 
1 88 


the  King  of  Spain 

who  sighed  and  went  back  to  his  seat  on  the 
string-piece  of  the  Morgue  dock,  snapped 
cigarette  butts  with  yellow-stained  fingers  at 
the  foolish,  futile  waves,  and  wished  there 
were  a  war,  so  he  could  go  as  a  correspondent 
and  do  big  things  and  get  decorated  for 
bravery. 

In  reporting,  as  in  everything  else,  to  learn 
your  job  you  have  to  begin  at  a  dreary  bot- 
tom. Even  if  there  had  been  a  war  just  then, 
no  paper  would  have  sent  Knox,  because  he 
was  not  good  enough.  Besides,  he  was  not 
modelled  for  a  newspaper  man  in  the  first 
place,  as  will  be  made  clear. 


On  one  day  in  every  seven  he  was  not  a 
newspaper  man.  Wednesday  was  his  day 
off.  He  always  arose  early  and  dressed  ex- 
citedly, instead  of  sleeping  late,  as  most 
working  people  do  on  a  holiday;  then  put- 
ting a  pipe  in  his  pocket,  he  took  the  L  train 
for  Cortlandt  Street,  jumped  on  the  ferry, 
and  when  in  the  middle  of  the  stream  care- 
fully doubled  up  his  newspaper,  gravely 
189 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

threw  it  far  from  him  into  the  boiling  wake 
of  the  screws,  and  stuck  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  smiling  vindictively.  Then,  turn- 
ing his  back  on  New  York,  he  stepped  gayly 
off  the  ferry,  jumped  into  a  familiar  train, 
went  down  to  a  certain  rural  university,  and 
strutted  for  twenty-four  hours. 

Here  he  was  not  a  Mr.  Knox,  one  of  the 
young  reporters,  but  Hammie  Knox,  the  old 
star  half-back;  he  was  not  sworn  at  over  the 
telephone  for  falling  down  on  news,  but  joy- 
ously grabbed  and  welcomed  by  those  who 
knew  him  well  enough,  and  stared  at  and 
worshipped  by  those  who  did  not  dare,  and 
it  felt  very  good.  But  on  a  certain  Wednes- 
day morning  he  left  his  pipe  in  another  coat. 

He  had,  as  usual,  cast  himself  comfortably 
into  a  whole  seat  in  the  smoking-car;  but 
when  he  felt  in  his  pockets  he  only  found 
some  copy-paper,  which  had  been  there  for 
weeks. 

He  could  not  smoke,  nor  were  there  any 
other  "  old "  graduates  to  talk  to  on  the 
way  down.  No  novels  or  newspapers  are 
sold  on  these  trains  after  leaving,  and  his 
own  paper  was  floating  down  the  bay,  un- 
190 


the  King  of  Spain 

read  (and  that  alone  shows  he  would  never 
make  a  newspaper  man);  so,  as  he  could 
not  even  read,  he  took  out  the  copy-paper, 
and  decided  to  write  something,  with  a  view 
to  passing  away  the  time  and  earning  his 
expenses.  He  was  far  enough  away  from 
the  depressing  influence  of  the  City  Room  to 
feel  confidence  in  his  own  powers  once  more, 
and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  show  them  what 
he  could  do  with  an  open  field  and  no  one  to 
hinder  him.  He  might  not  be  a  war  cor- 
respondent; but  this  is  what  he  wrote  while 
Newark,  Elizabeth,  Rahway,  Metuchen,  and 
New  Brunswick  scurried  by  the  window: 

PRINCETON,  N.  J.,  8.30  P.M.  [Special]. — The 
King  of  Spain  was  burned  in  effigy  here  to-night, 
amid  great  excitement  on  the  part  of  the  entire 
student  body.  The  demonstration  began  with  a 
mass  meeting,  held  on  the  campus  around  the 
historic  cannon,  a  relic  of  the  American  Revolu- 
tion and  a  fit  emblem  for  the  sentiment  of  the  oc- 
casion, which  was  "  Cuba  Libre." 

The  brutal  policy  of  Spain  and  her  farcical  re- 
forms were  vehemently  denounced,  and  the  cause 
of  Cuba's  independence  was  enthusiastically  ex- 
tolled. The  gathering  then  formed  itself  into  a 
large  procession,  which  paraded  the  town,  bear- 
ing transparencies  on  which  were  inscribed  vari- 
ous anti-Spanish  and  pro-Cuban  sentiments.  At 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

one  point  in  the  proceedings  the  Spanish  colors 
were  deliberately  dragged  in  the  streets.  This 
act  was  cheered  vociferously. 

The  procession  then  returned  to  the  college 
grounds,  where  a  huge  bonfire  had  been  pre- 
pared. The  leaders  of  the  movement,  assisted  by 
a  prominent  alumnus,  who  does  not  wish  his 
name  used,  then  produced  an  effigy  of  Alfonso 
XIII.  in  royal  apparel,  which  was  hurled  upon 
the  flames  amidst  numerous  hisses  and  yells. 

He  continued  in  this  vein  as  far  as  Mon- 
mouth  Junction,  repeating  himself  occasion- 
ally, and  enjoying  it  all  very  much  because 
he  was  not  hampered  by  any  fool  facts.  This 
was  a  much  nicer  way :  write  your  facts  first 
and  make  them  afterward.  He  had  no 
doubt  of  his  ability  to  do  this  latter;  that 
was  merely  incidental.  'There  was  about  a 
half-column  so  far,  he  estimated;  and  this, 
at  $6  per  column,  would  more  than  cover 
the  $2.40  spent  for  the  round-trip  ticket.  As 
for  food  and  bed,  he  considered  it  beneath 
him  to  pay  for  such  things  on  these  visits. 
Still,  he  would  have  written  more,  but  just 
then  the  old  familiar  sky-line  of  towers  and 
distant  trees  swung  out,  making  his  heart 
jump  as  it  always  did.  So  he  wound  up 
quickly  with,  "  At  a  late  hour  to-night  the 
192 


the  King  of  Spain 

embers  of  the  fire  were  still  glowing  bright- 
ly," which  he  considered  an  artistic  ending, 
and  signed  his  name. 

"  It'll  do  'em  good,"  he  said  to  himself,  as 
he  stepped  off  the  train  at  Princeton  Junc- 
tion. "They  need  stirring  up  down  here. 
They  are  getting  too  well-behaved.  They 
are  not  the  real  thing  as  we  were  when  I  was 
in  college,  these  boys,"  he  indulgently  added; 
for,  being  only  three  miles  away,  he  was 
beginning  to  feel  his  years. 

He  folded  up  the  MS.,  stuck  it  into  his 
pocket,  and  thought  no  more  about  it  for 
awhile,  because  here  was  an  American  Ex- 
press boy  reverently  touching  his  hat  and 
the  conductor  of  the  junction  train  delight- 
edly saluting  him  by  his  first  name ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  more  Knox  was  swaggering  up 
across  the  campus,  with  chest  puffed  out  and 
a  scowl  on  his  face,  no  longer  a  reporter,  but 
a  hero,  whose  arrival  would  soon  be  an- 
nounced throughout  the  under-graduate 
world,  for  a  group  of  underclassmen,  passing 
along  a  near-by  street  had  sighted  his  shoul- 
ders from  a  distance  of  two  hundred  yards 
and  said,  "  That's  Hammie  Knox." 
193 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

It  was  always  a  little  sudden,  this  transi- 
tion from  what  he  was  in  town  to  what  he 
was  in  college;  and  Knox,  passing  by  a 
couple  of  awed  little  town-boys  who  turned 
and  gazed  after  him  until  he  was  out  of 
sight,  had  his  usual  dizzy  sensation.  But  he 
knew  he  would  get  the  old  campus  feeling 
and  would  snap  back  into  his  proper  place 
again  as  soon  as  he  could  shed  his  derby  hat 
for  a  cap  and  could  stick  a  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

So,  absent-mindedly  knocking  a  tutor  off 
the  walk  in  his  haste,  he  proceeded  to  what 
was  formerly  his  room,  and  threw  his  suit- 
case at  the  bedroom  portiere  and  reached 
down  a  cap  from  the  antlers  and  picked  out 
a  congenial-looking  pipe  from  the  mantel- 
piece. The  room  had  again  changed  hands 
recently,  and  he  did  not  know  the  name  of 
the  present  occupant,  but  that  did  not  mat- 
ter; the  latter  would  see  the  initials  on  the 
suit-case  and  boast  about  it  afterward.  Emit- 
ting a  loud  "wow!"  which  had  been  ac- 
cumulating for  six  days,  Hamilton  Knox 
darted  down  the  noisy  entry-stairs  and  out 
upon  the  campus,  himself  again. 

First  he  strode  across  the  quadrangle — it 
194 


the  King  of  Spain 

was  an  entirely  different  gait  from  that  of  the 
young  man  who  went  from  the  Criminal 
Court  Building  to  Newspaper  Row — and  on 
down  to  the  University  Athletic  Field ;  drift- 
ing into  the  cage  to  look  over  the  base-ball 
candidates,  who,  by  the  way,  found  time  to 
look  at  him. 

The  trainer  spied  him  first,  and  came  run- 
ning over  to  shake  his  hand.  "  It  does  me 
good  to  see  you,"  he  said.  Meanwhile  the 
captain  dropped  his  bat  and  strode  across  to 
welcome  him,  and  stood  beside  him  awhile 
to  ask  his  opinion  of  the  material,  which 
Knox  gave;  and  at  the  close  of  the  practice, 
"  You  are  going  to  lunch  with  us,  aren't  you, 
Hammie? "  the  captain  asked.  Hammie 
said  he  would. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right — he's  taking  on 
weight,"  whispered  one  of  the  candidates  to 
another,  as  they  followed  the  ex-half-back 
out  of  the  dressing-room. 

After  luncheon  he  leisurely  floated  up  to 
the  campus  again,  with  a  bunch  of  upper- 
classmen  about  him.  When  he  reached  the 
corner  of  Reunion  Hall,  he  suddenly 
snapped  his  fingers,  and  said,  "  That's  so;  I 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

forgot,"  and,  leaving  his  friends  for  a  mo- 
ment, stepped  into  the  office  of  the  college 
daily.  "  Give  me  some  chalk,  will  you, 
please?  "  he  said. 

Two  under-classmen  editors  started  for  it, 
and  nearly  tripped  over  each  other;  but  per- 
ceiving that  the  managing  editor,  a  senior, 
was  also  hurrying,  they  sat  humbly  down, 
and  hoped  the  managing  editor  would  not 
store  their  presumption  up  against  them. 

The  mighty  one  took  the  chalk,  said 
"  Thanks,  old  man,"  and  strode  out  to  where 
the  bulletin-board  hangs  outside  the  office- 
window.  Then  he  wrote: 


THE  PRINCETONIAN. 


the  King  of  Spain 

He  blew  the  chalk-dust  off  his  fingers,  and 
rejoined  the  group  by  the  lamp-post,  who 
were  now  smiling  admiringly.  Then,  throw- 
ing his  arms  over  some  of  their  shoulders,  he 
said,  "  Come  on,  let's  push  over  to  the  inn." 

Those  who  had  the  time  to  spare  followed 
along  in  the  wake,  and  several  who  did  not. 
"  He  was  always  a  great  horse-player,  you 
know,"  whispered  those  in  the  rear. 

Knox  knew  what  to  expect  of  the  crowd 
he  would  find  at  the  inn,  so  when  several 
"  Yea!  Hammie!  "s  and  then  a  long  cheer, 
with  "  Ham.  Knox  "  on  the  end,  greeted 
his  entrance  to  the  grill-room,  he  merely 
smiled  kindly,  and  as  soon  as  he  had  said 
hello  to  some  of  them  by  their  first  names, 
hit  others  on  their  shoulders  or  heads,  and 
"  How  are  you,  old  man  "-ed  the  rest,  he 
remarked,  causally,  in  the  silence  he  had 
known  would  come: 

"  Great  scheme  you  fellows  have  for  to- 
night." He  had  winked  at  his  companions. 

Those  at  the  tables  looked  at  each  other 
vaguely,  and  then  at  him.  "  What  scheme's 
that,  Hammie?  " 

"  I  mean  the  big  bonfire,  of  course,  and 
197 


burning  Blanco  in  effigy,  and  all  that — or  is 
it  Alfonso?  It  seems  a  reasonable  idea. 
You  can  count  me  in.  It  is  all  right.  But 
if  I  were  you  I'd  have  a  mass  meeting  first, 
with  horse  speeches  and  all  the  old  Fresh-fire 
stunts,  then  a  parade.  I  remember  way  back 
in  my  freshman  year,  when — why,  what's 
the  matter?  Haven't  you  fellows  heard 
about  it?  " 

They  had  not  heard  about  it. 

"This  gang  is  dead  slow!"  pronounced 
the  prominent  alumnus,  cruelly.  "  There's 
a  great  big  notice  on  the  Princetonian  bul- 
letin-board. Why,  up  on  the  campus  every- 
body is  talking  about  it  "  (they  were  by  this 
time),  "  while  you  fellows  are  sitting  here 
wasting  away  your  glorious  half-holiday. 
You  don't  appreciate  the  opportunities  of  a 
college  course.  Just  wait  till  you  get  out 
into  the  wide  world  and  hustle  for  your- 
selves. You're  getting  effete.  You're  los- 
ing the  old  Princeton  spirit.  You  don't  do 
things  the  way  we  did  when  we  were  in  col- 
lege. Good-by.  I  think  I'll  have  to  be  go- 
ing  " 

"  Wait,  wait  a  minute,  you  old  graduate," 
198 


the  King  of  Spain 

said  one  of  the  gang,  somewhat  familiarly. 
"  We  want  to  be  in  it,  of  course,  if  there's 
going  to  be  any  fun.  Tell  us  all  about  it." 

Knox  did.  In  half  an  hour  they  were  let- 
tering transparencies  and  painting  flags  and 
making  an  inflammable  king,  while  Knox, 
who  said  he  was  sorry  he  didn't  have  time  to 
do  any  of  the  work,  went  on  over  to  a  room 
in  Witherspoon,  where  he  knew  he  would 
find  a  certain  gang  playing  a  game  of  whist, 
which  he  broke  up.  .  .  .  Now,  with  these 
two  crowds  interested,  and  the  news  having 
gone  forth  that  he  approved  of  the  idea,  the 
enterprise  was  safe,  so  he  spent  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon  drifting  about  the  place,  basking. 


II 


It  began  soon  after  dinner.  First  a  win- 
dow in  West  College  was  lowered,  and  a  big 
voice  bellowed,  "  Heads  out!  Fresh  Fire." 

Every  college  community  has  an  unpub- 
lished signal-code  book.  In  this  one  these 
words  no  longer  refer  to  a  certain  custom, 
199 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

now  defunct,  nor  to  any  sort  of  fire  neces- 
sarily; they  merely  signify  abstractly  that 
there  is  about  to  be  some  noise  and  disorder, 
usually  called  horse. 

Another  voice,  across  the  quadrangle — a 
shrill  one  this  time — yelled,  "  Fresh  Fi-er-r! 
Heads  out!  Everybody,  heads  out!  !  " 

Other  windows  opened,  and  other  voices 
echoed  the  cry  earnestly.  A  megaphone 
was  poked  out  of  one  of  the  back  campus 
rooms.  Coach-horns  and  bicycle  bugles  had 
already  begun  their  work.  Shotguns  were 
banging.  All  this  by  way  of  prelude. 

Now  the  various  dormitory  stairs  began  to 
rattle  and  entry  doors  to  slam.  Dark  forms 
shot  across  the  bars  of  light  on  the  way  to 
the  cannon,  the  centre  of  the  quadrangle  and 
of  campus  activity.  Most  of  the  voices  were 
out-door  voices  now.  "  Everybody  come — 
yea-a,"  shouted  many;  and  suddenly  there 
sounded,  "  Ray!  ray!  ray!  tiger,  siss,  boom, 
ah,  Cuba  Libre."  It  was  greeted  with  many 
prolonged  yea-as  and  yells.  Transparencies, 
flags,  and  banners  began  to  appear.  Each 
of  these  was  welcomed. 

Within  five  minutes  the  bulk  of  the  under- 
200 


the  King  of  Spain 

graduate  body  was  there.  Bowles,  the 
young  man  whose  duty  it  was  to  be  funny 
on  glee-club  trips,  mounted  the  cannon;  he 
commenced  an  oration  beginning,  "  The 
war  must  go  on,"  which  referred  originally 
to  the  Revolutionary  war.  But  that  did  not 
make  enough  noise.  A  couple  of  hundred 
of  the  others  joined  hands  and  began  to 
dance  in  a  circle  around  him,  making  him 
dizzy  and  drowning  out  his  words.  They 
were  shouting  "  Cuba  Libre."  Also  they 
yelled,  "  To  hell  with  Spain." 

Then  a  hoarse  authoritative  voice,  which 
all  recognized  as  the  old  half-back's,  pro- 
duced a  moderate  hush.  "  Now,  fellows," 
it  commanded,  "let's  pee-rade!"  Accord- 
ingly, everybody  shouted  "Yea-a"  and 
paraded.  Knox  had  intended  to  have  some 
more  speeches,  but  he  had  forgotten  that 
part.  He  loved  parades.  The  procession 
formed  itself  automatically.  They  proceeded 
in  lock-step  to  Nassau  Street,  where  they 
spread  out  in  open  rank,  put  their  hands  on 
each  other's  shoulders,  and  chassed  four 
abreast  zigzag  up  the  street,  yelling  pleas- 
antly and  unintermittently  as  they  did  so. 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

They  marched  over  very  much  the 
route  that  class  reunions  take  in  June,  only, 
instead  of  singing,  "  Nassau,  Nassau,  sing 
out  the  chorus  free,"  they  sang,  "  Cubavv, 
Cubaw,  sing  out  for  Cuba  Libre; "  and  in- 
stead of  cheering  for  class  numerals,  they 
shouted,  "  What's  the  matter  with  Alfonso? 
He's  all  right — nit,"  and  other  "  anti-Span- 
ish sentiments." 

The  townspeople,  the  same  old  patient 
townspeople,  came  to  the  doors  and  win- 
dows and  looked  on  with  the  same  expres- 
sions they  have  been  wearing,  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  ever  since  Washington 
led  his  victorious  men  into  old  North. 

Knox,  dressed  in  a  'Varsity  sweater  and 
somebody's  stolen  duck  trousers,  was,  of 
course,  in  the  lead.  His  head  was  thrown 
back,  and  he  was  having  a  serene,  contented 
time,  oblivious  of  the  Morgue  and  every- 
thing urban,  until  suddenly,  on  the  way  back 
to  the  campus,  the  office  of  the  Western 
Union  Telegraph  Company  came  within  his 
horizon.  Then  he  remembered  the  despatch 
in  his  pocket.  Don't  you  see  he  was  never 
meant  for  a  newspaper  man? 
202 


the  King  of  Spain 

He  snatched  out  his  MS.,  and  hastily 
glanced  down  the  pages  by  the  electric  light 
of  the  street.  "  By  Jove,  I  forgot  all  about 
the  Spanish  flag,"  he  exclaimed,  clapping  his 
hand  to  the  wad  under  his  sweater.  They 
had  reached  the  campus  gate  now,  and  he 
felt  that  it  was  the  psychological  moment; 
he  ought  to  lead  them  in  and  light  the  fire, 
but  he  did  not  like  to  cross  out  that  part 
about  the  Spanish  flag.  Besides,  it  might 
make  it  less  than  $2.40  worth.  "  We'll 
march  down  to  the  School  of  Science  and 
back  first,"  shouted  Knox,  shoving  his  copy 
into  his  pocket. 

"  Hammie  says  down  to  the  School  of 
Science  first.  Down  to  the  School  of  Sci- 
ence, fellows."  It  was  repeated  down  the 
line. 

Meanwhile  Knox  whipped  out  the  yellow 
and  red  flag,  and  with  a  joyous  yell  ran  over 
to  the  edge  of  the  street  and  trailed  it  in  the 
gutter,  which  happened  just  then  to  be  oc- 
cupied by  water  and  notorious  Jersey  mud. 
The  flag  became  so  muddy  that  Knox 
dropped  it.  Then  the  whole  procession 
marched  over  it  delightedly. 
203 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

"  So  far  my  stuff  is  all  pat,"  said  Knox  to 
himself,  as  the  procession  turned  back;  "  and 
I  can  trust  them  to  carry  out  the  rest  of  it." 
Excusing  himself,  he  ran  over  to  the  tele- 
graph-office, filed  his  despatch  just  as  they 
were  going  to  close  up,  and  hurried  back  to 
the  campus  in  time  to  light  the  goodly  pile 
of  timber  which  had  been  gathered  by  faith- 
ful Freshmen  and  soaked  with  kerosene. 

It  flared  up  beautifully  and  roared,  and 
lighted  up  the  bleak  back  campus  in  the  rear 
of  Witherspoon  Hall;  and  the  mad  under- 
graduate mob  began  dancing  and  howling 
and  throwing  on  more  wood.  A  moment 
later,  at  a  signal  from  Knox,  a  dozen  fellows 
dashed  around  the  corner  of  Witherspoon 
and  down  the  terrace  with  a  stuffed  foot-ball 
suit.  It  had  a  yellow  and  red  Lord  Faunt- 
leroy  sash  and  a  Tarn  o'Shanter  cap  on  its 
wooden  painted  head,  around  which  hung  a 
placard  reading,  "  Handle  with  care — one 
king  of  Spain ! "  This  they  carried  three 
times  around  through  the  crowd,  which 
yelled  joyously  when  the  king  was  dumped 
on  the  top  of  the  flames.  He  was  soaked 
with  kerosene  and  crackled  up  cheerfully. 
204 


the  King  of  Spain 

So  they  yelled,  "  To  hell  with  Spain."  Ditto 
with  Alfonso;  ditto  Weyler;  ditto  Blanco; 
ditto  Spain,  Weyler,  and  Alfonso — and  gave 
three  times  three  for  Cuba  and  themselves. 

At  this  point  the  university  police  charged 
down  valiantly  and  dispersed  the  mob. 
Knox  did  not  care;  his  story  was  now  O. 
K.  The  police  had  seen  the  bulletin-board, 
and  could  doubtless  have  been  more  effec- 
tive if  they  had  torn  down  the  pile  before  it 
was  lighted;  but  in  that  case  they  would 
have  missed  the  fun.  The  undergraduates 
did  not  mind  being  dispersed;  the  thirst  for 
excitement  was  about  satiated.  They 
shouted,  "  All  over,  everybody,"  and  de- 
parted, some  for  bed,  some  for  books,  and 
some  for  beer.  All  felt  better. 

It  had  given  them  a  little  helpful  recrea- 
tion, and  a  serious  young  professor,  who 
looked  on  with  note-book  in  hand,  an  illus- 
tration of  "  the  Theory  of  the  Mob,"  about 
which  he  had  studied  in  Germany.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  there  was  very  little  patriotic 
emotion — or  any  other  kind — "  swaying  " 
this  gathering,  except  the  desire  to  let  them- 
selves loose  and  expend  the  surplus  energy 
205 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

of  youth,  which  in  certain  months  of  the  year 
cannot  express  itself  in  athletics,  and  yet 
must  come  out  somehow.  But  this  wise 
young  professor  did  not  understand  such 
primitive  motives  of  action,  because  he  came 
from  a  large  New  England  university,  where 
life  is  an  old,  old  story  at  nineteen  or  twenty, 
and  the  youth  of  his  set  were  wont  to  divert 
themselves  by  dissecting  their  souls  and 
making  Meredithian  aphorisms  and  patron- 
izing the  universe.  He  was  not  accustomed 
to  such  boyish  spontaneity. 

When  the  time  came,  and  it  came  soon 
after  this,  a  goodly  number  of  these  same 
yawping  lads  went  to  the  front  to  get  shot  at, 
and  an  equal  proportion  of  the  New  Eng- 
landers  likewise,  and  both  did  the  thing 
equally  well;  but  at  this  time,  down  there  in 
their  academic  seclusion,  they  did  not  care 
so  very  much  about  Cuba,  and  knew  less. 
They  were  too  full  of  their  own  undergradu- 
ate interests  to  feel  very  strongly  on  such 
trivial  matters  as  monarchical  tyranny  or  in- 
ternational complications.  When  they  had 
time  to  read  the  papers  they  generally  turned 
over  to  the  athletic  column.  But  they  had 
206 


the  King  of  Spain 

no  objection  to  burning  Alfonso  or  anybody 
else  in  effigy,  if  Hamilton  Knox  said  so;  and 
they  pronounced  it  very  good  horse,  and 
went  to  sleep  prepared  to  forget  all  about  it ; 
and  so  did  young  Knox,  who,  next  morning 
arose  early,  caught  the  7.10  for  New  York, 
stepped  yawningly  upon  a  cross-town  car 
for  East  Twenty-Sixth  Street,  and  found  the 
little  monotonous  waves  still  slapping  and 
swashing  against  the  piles  of  the  dock,  which 
had  the  same  old  smell. 

The  paper  he  had  bought  on  the  trip  to 
New  York,  showed  his  story  on  the  first 
page,  leaded,  and  hardly  changed  at  all.  He 
was  pleased,  but  it  had  about  worn  off  by 
this  time.  So  he  went  out  to  his  old  place, 
lighted  a  cigarette,  swung  his  legs,  and 
wished  he  could  do  something.  But  he  had 
done  something. 

Ill 

Hamilton  Knox's  paper  knew,  as  all  the 
newspapers  knew,  that  a  crisis  was  impend- 
ing.   The  despatch  was  an  interesting  com- 
mentary on  the  most  momentous  topic  of  the 
207 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

hour.  In  other  words,  it  was  pronounced 
"  good  news  "  by  the  night  editor,  who  had 
immediately  telegraphed,  "  Send  half -col. 
more  details,  what  was  on  transparencies,  etc., 
stay  down  there  until  further  notice."  That 
was  about  the  time  Hamilton  and  his  young 
friends  were  appreciating  well-earned  rest 
and  refreshment  in  the  grill-room,  which  was 
long  after  the  telegraph-office  windows  be- 
came dark.  The  telegram  was  returned  to 
the  editor.  So  they  cursed  young  Knox, 
and  decided  to  ask  him  what  he  meant  by  not 
writing  more  in  the  first  place. 

Now  his  real  reason,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, was  that  the  trip  from  New  York  to 
Princeton  was  not  longer;  but  they  forgot 
all  about  asking  him,  because  they  found  the 
next  morning  that  none  of  the  other  papers 
had  a  line  about  it.  Young  Knox  had  scored 
his  first  beat. 

That  was  something  to  have  done,  better 
than  smoking  a  pipe  on  the  cars  at  least ;  but 
that  was  not  the  end  of  his  story. 

First,  in  the  offices  of  every  other  morn- 
ing paper  in  town  there  were  scowls,  and  un- 
fair remarks  about  college  correspondents; 
208 


the  King  of  Spain 

while  the  afternoon  papers  were  all  quietly 
stealing  the  despatch  for  their  first  editions. 

Next,  all  the  big  papers,  both  afternoon 
and  morning  editions,  began  sending  men 
down  to  Princeton  for  the  good  second-day 
story  they  thought  was  there — too  good  for 
young  Knox,  thought  his  city  editor,  who 
unsympathetically  let  him  stay  at  the  Morgue 
while  the  best  available  man  was  instructed 
to  "  get  all  the  details,  names  of  the  speakers, 
and  what  they  said;  secure  interviews  with 
the  president  and  dean  and  the  prominent 
professors,  especially  the  Jingoes.  There's 
a  good  second-day  story  in  it.  These  col- 
lege correspondents  don't  know  anything." 
The  yellow  journals  despatched  artists  to 
make  pictures  of  the  fire,  whose  ashes  were 
now  cold,  and  fac-similes  of  transparencies. 
So  much  for  the  first  few  hours  of  the  day 
after  Hamilton's  holiday. 

Meanwhile  the  New  York  papers  had 
gone  out  to  the  other  cities,  and  the  story 
was  clipped  and  copied,  and  a  hundred  clev- 
er men  all  over  the  East  were  now  writing 
paragraphs  about  it.  Some  praised  Prince- 
ton's patriotism  and  some  condemned  her 
209 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

bad  taste,  according  to  the  political  opinions 
of  the  men  who  paid  the  writers'  salaries. 
The  New  York  correspondents  for  Western 
cities  and  Western  news  agencies  were  flash- 
ing the  story  out  to  the  sections  beyond  the 
immediate  reach  of  the  fast  newspaper  trains. 
But  it  did  not  stop  there. 

The  American  correspondents  for  foreign 
newspapers  and  news  agencies  had  raised 
their  eyebrows  as  soon  as  they  saw  the  head- 
line. Immediately  they  began  sending  deep 
down  under  the  many  miles  of  waves  and 
water  brief  accounts  of  the  holiday  doings  of 
Hammie  Knox,  who  sat  out  on  the  string- 
piece  of  the  dock,  idly  kicking  his  legs  and 
wishing  something  would  happen. 

It  will  not  take  long  to  tell  what  happened. 
First  the  Madrid  papers  pounced  upon  it, 
then  the  other  important  Spanish  papers  pub- 
lished it  with  exclamation  marks,  and  cabled 
to  London  clamoring  for  more,  the  Impar- 
tial meanwhile  writing  an  inflamed  editorial 
about  Yankee  pigs,  which  ran  sputtering 
and  exploding  like  a  string  of  fire-crackers 
out  through  the  provinces.  Spread  heads 
popped  out  in  the  morning,  like  mushrooms, 

2JQ 


the  King  of  Spain 

on  sleepy  old  papers  in  the  interior  of  which 
no  one  ever  heard  before. 

That  night  the  students  at  the  University 
of  Madrid  held  an  indignation  meeting. 
There  were  speeches  which  began  like  the 
rolling  of  potatoes  out  of  barrels,  which 
ended  with  the  sound  of  many  saw-mills 
fighting.  All  the  American  flags  in  the  place 
were  torn  into  shreds,  ground  into  the  earth, 
spat  upon.  American  citizens  were  jostled 
on  the  streets.  There  was  a  small-sized  riot 
at  the  Cafe  Sebastian.  Minister  Woodford 
stayed  indoors  all  day,  by  request.  Sagasta's 
hair  bristled. 

Meanwhile  in  London  the  ponderous 
Times  had  published  a  portentous  leader. 
Labouchere  had  written  something  charac- 
teristic and  caustic  in  the  first  person.  The 
Rt.  Hon.  Joseph  Chamberlain  in  the  Cabinet 
meeting  said  something  suave  about  Anglo- 
American  alliance.  In  Berlin,  Emperor 
William  twisted  up  his  mustache.  On  the 
Paris  Bourse,  American  consols  dropped 
ten  points,  and  in  New  York  Hamilton 
Knox  bought  a  fresh  box  of  cigarettes. 

Now  the  "  second-day  "  stories  were  pub- 

211 


The  Cub  Reporter  and 

lished.  From  a  news  point  of  view  they  fiz- 
zled out.  "  The  university  faculty,"  cabled 
the  foreign  correspondents,  "  profess  sur- 
prise, and  even  amusement,  that  so  much  has 
been  made  of  so  small  a  matter.  They  seem 
to  be  trying  to  show  that  it  was  only  a  boy- 
ish prank,  not  an  official  university  expres- 
sion. They  say  it  meant  nothing." 

Now,  the  Latin  races  are  notoriously 
unappreciative  of  our  humor.  This  last  bul- 
letin was  all  that  was  needed  to  make  Spain 
froth  at  the  mouth.  "  Meant  nothing!  Does 
our  sacred  honor  mean  nothing?  Ah,  ha! 
The  Yankee  pigs  are  now  afraid.  They 
would  belittle  this  unforgetable  insult.  They 
now  tremble  with  fear,"  etc. 

At  this  point  the  affair  came  into  diplo- 
matic existence.  The  correspondents  had 
to  wait  for  the  cable.  "  Government  busi- 
ness," they  were  informed.  Something  in 
cipher  was  cabled  from  Madrid  to  Senor  De 
Lome's  successor  at  Washington.  He  rang 
for  his  carriage,  told  the  coachman  with  yel- 
low and  red  facings  on  his  livery  to  drive  to 
the  French  ambassador's — "  pronto! — quick- 
ly!" 

212 


the  King  of  Spain 

The  ponderous  jaws  of  international  con- 
versation had  begun  to  work.  They  worked 
all  that  day  and  most  of  the  night. 

The  next  day  in  the  Cortes  Senor  Some- 
body-or-Other  made  that  now  historic 
speech,  the  one  ending:  "And  if  it  is  thus 
the  youth  in  their  universities  of  learning  are 
taught,  the  time  has  now  come  when  it  is 
necessary  for  us  as  a  nation  of  honor  to  teach 
yonder  insolent  nation  of  pigs  what  Spanish 
honor  means,  and  what  it  means  to  insult 
it!  ...  Our  forefathers  .  .  .  !  Honor 
to  the  death !  .  .  .  B-r-r-r,"  etc. ;  and  they 
all  screamed,  gnashed  their  teeth,  and  shook 
themselves  to  pieces  in  their  interesting 
Southern  way.  Then  came  the  long-delayed 
action  in  regard  to  the  demands  of  the 
United  States.  The  vote  was  taken;  the 
measure  was  defeated.  The  rest  is  history, 
as  well  known  as  the  cub  reporter's  part  in  it 
is  little  known. 

At  9.40  P.M.  on  February  I5th,  the  Maine 
was  blown  up.  On  April  2oth  came  our  ul- 
timatum. On  April  2ist  the  managing  edi- 
tor said,  "  Mr.  Knox,  you  are  to  join  the 
despatch-boat  at  Tampa  in  forty-eight  hours; 
213 


The  Cub  Reporter 

get  vaccinated  and  start  this  evening."  But 
Hamilton  declined.  There  was  something 
better  to  do  now. 

Out  upon  the  taffrail  of  a  crowded  trans- 
port, sat  Trooper  Knox  swinging  a  pair  of 
hardened  legs  and  smoking  a  dirty  pipe. 
He  was  about  to  have  a  chance  at  what  he 
was  best  suited  for,  and  he  was  chatting 
happily  with  another  Rough  Rider,  his 
bunkie.  "  Newspaper  work  is  no  good," 
he  confided;  "  they  don't  give  you  a  chance 
to  run  with  the  ball." 


214 


The  Old  Reporter 


The  Old  Reporter 

'TAKE  a  walk  along  Park  Row  with  an 
old  newspaper-man  and  make  him  talk 
about  the  fellow-craftsmen  he  meets  along 
the  way.  Some  of  his  comments  may  be 
like  this: 

"There  goes  Colonel  Sanderson;  used  to 
be  managing  editor  of  The  Globe.  Remember 
how  he  covered  the  famous  Hattie  Harris 
murder-trial  years  ago?  That  was  literature. 
All  gone  to  pieces  now;  does  the  Centre 
Street  Magistrates'  Court,  or  some  other 
small  department,  for  a  '  flimsy '  bureau. 
.  .  .  See  that  fellow  in  the  broad-brimmed 
hat  ?  Used  to  be  a  big  man  in  the  Scripps- 
McRae  league  out  West,  where  they  call  a 
beat  a  '  scoop.'  Wanted  to  come  to  New 
,York,  like  so  many  of  them,  you  know ;  left 
a  good  place,  high  up  on  a  St.  Louis  paper — 
and  now  look  at  him  ;  out  of  a  job,  too  proud 
to  go  home — out  there  they  think  he's  a  big 
217 


The  Old  Reporter 

man.  He  sees  me;  let's  hurry  a  little,  if  you 
don't  mind;  he  owes  me  more  than  he'll 
ever  pay  back  as  it  is.  ...  Here  comes 
young  Doc.  Jamison,  son  of  ex-Governor 
Jamison;  he's  a  hustler,  too,  becoming  the 
star  reporter  of  his  paper,  they  tell  me.  Now 
if  he'll  just  leave  whiskey  alone —  Hello, 
there's  Billy  Woods.  Haven't  seen  him  for 
a  long  time.  You've  heard  of  him.  The 
great  Billy  Woods.  .  .  ." 

If  it  were  the  right  time  of  day,  and  he 
were  the  right  kind  of  newspaper-man,  you 
might  pass  a  score  of  them  between  Broad- 
way and  the  Bridge.  Perhaps  a  half-dozen 
would  have  left  a  hard-luck  story  trailing 
behind  them.  There  would  be  one  main 
cause  assigned  for  it  by  your  experienced 
companion.  In  your  walk  you  would  have 
passed  just  about  that  number  of  places 
where  the  staple  article  of  merchandise  was 
dispensed  in  glasses.  And  yet  these  places 
alone  are  not  to  blame. 

There  are  so  many  different  sorts  of  men 
in  this  strange  business,  hurrying  up  and 
down  and  in  and  out  of  the  big,  teeming 
218 


The  Old  Reporter 

town  and  through  the  country  and  over  the. 
globe,  gathering  the  history  of  to-day  (while 
you  are  absorbed  by  your  own  more  or  less 
important  part  in  it),  printing  it  to-night 
while  you  sleep,  and  handing  it  to  you,  for 
a  ridiculous  price,  fresh  and  inky-smelling, 
as  soon  as  you  awake  in  the  morning.  More 
varieties  of  mankind  perhaps  than  in  any  of 
the  other  arts  of  peace,  and  they  come  from 
more  parts  of  the  world  and  more  strata  of 
society. 

Besides  those  who  grow  up  in  the  life,  from 
office-boys  (through  the  press-  or  compos- 
ing-room, or  both,  to  become,  very  likely, 
good,  old-fashioned  "  all-round  newspaper- 
men "),  and  besides  those  who  come  with 
more  book-education  to  seek  literary  careers 
in  the  metropolis,  there  are  older  men,  who, 
having  made  a  failure  of  something  else,  are 
"  engaged  in  newspaper-work  temporarily," 
as  they  continue  to  say  (unless  they  fail  here, 
too),  because  it  pays  so  much  better  than 
clerkships;  and  there  are  younger  men, 
drawn  into  the  life  chiefly  by  the  spirit  of 
adventure,  which  a  few  generations  ago 
would  have  taken  them  to  sea,  being  sick- 
219 


The  Old  Reporter 

ened  by  the  prospect  of  many  monotonous 
days  at  a  desk.  There  are  cadet  brothers  of 
foreign  nobility ;  young  men  from  neighbor- 
ing cities  who  have  suddenly  lost  their  in- 
comes, or  their  social  positions,  or  else  their 
enjoyment  in  such  possessions.  There  are 
teachers  who  have  grown  tired  of  academic 
monotony,  and  naval  officers  who  have  wait- 
ed and  waited;  quick-tongued  Irish  edit- 
ors who  have  burned  their  bridges  behind 
them,  and  English  lieutenants  who  talk  in- 
terestingly of  army  life  in  India  and  tell  dif- 
ferent stories  at  different  times  of  why  they 
left  it.  There  are  Arizona  miners  and  Aus- 
tralian sheep-raisers;  country  poets,  country 
parsons,  gamblers,  Jesuits,  European  nihil- 
ists, men  in  the  employ  of  foreign  secret- 
service  bureaus — all  sorts  of  men,  except 
the  bovine  male,  with  lethargic  mind  and 
lack-lustre  eye.  For  more  than  its  just 
share  of  the  best  of  brains  are  drawn  into 
the  feeders  of  this  great  noisy,  all-de- 
vouring machine  that  turns  out  the  stuff 
called  news.  It  is  a  fascinating  machine, 
and  has  a  way  of  getting  more  than  its 
share  of  good  blood  also.  It  is  a  relentless 
220 


The  Old  Reporter 

machine,  and  is  apt  to  squeeze  the  best  out 
of  strong  men,  throwing  them  forth  again, 
when  least  expected,  old  and  useless  before 
they  reach  what  should  be  the  prime  of  life. 
Occasionally  you  hear  of  a  well-known 
correspondent  who  signs  his  initials,  or  of 
an  editor  who  wins  fame  or  else  notoriety. 
No  one  tells  of  these  others  who,  while  they 
live,  fill  most  of  the  paper,  and  are  broken 
down  before  forty,  having  written  on  every 
sort  of  interest  and  every  sort  of  person  in 
the  great  seething  city — except  the  one 
they  know  the  most  about. 


There  were  several  stories  of  why  brilliant 
Billy  Woods  came  North  to  become  a  news- 
paper man,  and  one  of  them  was  a  love- 
story.  The  younger  men  on  the  staff  used 
to  say  that  the  only  reason  he  went  into 
this  work  was  that  his  father  forbade  it.  The 
women  in  the  office  were  inclined  to  be- 
lieve the  love-story.  However,  he  would 
eventually  have  drifted  into  it ;  inevitably, 
because  he  was  a  born  reporter. 

22J 


The  Old  Reporter 

No  one  would  have  thought  him  a  born 
reporter  from  the  way  he  handled  his  first 
assignment.  It  was  to  cover  a  monthly 
smoker  of  a  university  alumni  association. 
"  Being  a  college  man,  you  may  be  inter- 
ested in  it,"  said  the  young  city  editor,  smil- 
ing benignly  at  the  bright-eyed  boy,  who 
bowed  in  a  very  grave  way  he  had  and 
marched  down  the  office  with  the  energetic 
walk  which  was  to  become  a  characteristic 
of  that  room — chin  in  the  air,  glasses  sliding 
down  his  nose  while  pounding  the  floor  with 
his  walking-stick. 

Now,  young  Woods  was  not  a  college 
man,  and  he  had  an  exaggerated  notion  of 
the  erudition  of  those  who  were.  It  was 
almost  awe,  and  it  persisted  even  after  he 
had  become  the  great  Billy  Woods.  It 
amazed  him  afresh  every  time  a  new  reporter 
that  had  an  academic  degree  fell  down  on  a 
story.  "  And  that  fellow's  a  college  grad- 
uate," Billy  would  say,  shaking  his  head. 

The  cubs  of  course  we're  more  or  less  in 
awe  of  the  dashing  star  reporter  of  the  pa- 
per, and  turned  to  gaze  after  him  when  he 
stalked  out  of  the  room  on  his  big  stories, 
222 


The  Old  Reporter 

but  he  did  not  realize  that;  he  suspected 
them  of  looking  down  upon  him  as  an 
ignoramus,  so  he  scowled  arrogantly  if  he 
caught  them  glancing  his  way,  unless,  in- 
deed, they  got  up  courage  to  borrow  his 
mucilage  or  ask  him  some  question  about 
the  office  rules  for  spelling. 

Then  he  would  open  up,  put  them  at  their 
ease,  discourse  interestingly  about  the  tra- 
ditions of  the  office,  and  fascinate  them,  as 
he  could  anyone,  man  or  woman,  who  came 
in  his  way.  "  No  wonder  Senators  at  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  like  to  have  Mr.  Woods 
come  up  and  slap  them  on  the  back!  "  "  No 
wonder  he  can  make  anybody  talk  about 
everything,"  thought  the  new  reporters, 
while  the  old  one  went  on  in  his  rapid  style, 
"  You'll  soon  assimilate  the  idea.  Now,  for 
instance,  '  A  dog  bites  a  man  ' — that's  a 
story ;  '  A  man  bites  a  dog  ' — that's  a  good 
story,"  etc.,  until  in  a  lull  there  came  the 
question — inevitable  from  very  recent  grad- 
uates: 

"  What  college  are  you  from,  Mr. 
Woods?" 

Billy  always  felt  better  when  this  was  over. 
223 


The  Old  Reporter 

"  I  received  my  schooling  abroad,"  he  al- 
ways took  pains  to  add.  "  Spent  most  of 
my  boyhood  over  there  with  relatives.  Have 
to  rely  upon  my  forebears  for  my  general 
culture,  I  reckon;  though  your  Alma  Mater's 
biological  department  holds  that  acquired 
characteristics  are  not  transmitted,  I  believe. 
My  family  were  nearly  all  lawyers  and 
clergymen,  or  professors  at  the  University 
— the  University  of  Virginia,  that  is.  That's 
where  they  wanted  me  to  go,  too,  but — " 
and  then  he  would  quote  a  line  of  Horace. 
Billy  always  quoted  Latin  in  his  first  con- 
versation with  "  college  men."  Let  us  hope 
the  collegians  always  understood  him.  .  .  . 
The  collegians  in  the  young  Billy  Woods's 
first  assignment  looked  like,  for  the  most 
part,  rather  pleasant-looking  down-town 
types.  Some  of  them  seemed  to  the  older 
reporters  to  have  smug  faces  with  fat  on 
their  necks,  and  others  to  be  of  the  narrow- 
shouldered,  neurasthenic  New  York  sort, 
who  couldn't  lean  back  and  smoke  calmly, 
and  many  were  very  good  fellows.  They 
were  all  mysterious  and  awful  to  the  new 
reporter  wrho  sat  in  the  back  of  the  room 
224 


The  Old  Reporter 

with  big  eyes  gazing  at  their  greatness  while 
he  felt  their  degrees  sticking  out  like  halos. 

The  feature  of  this  particular  club  smoker 
was  a  paper  upon  "  The  Decline  of  the 
Novel,"  by  a  rather  immature  alumnus  of 
the  university,  who  was  now  a  complacent 
young  professor  of  literature,  with  incipient 
side-whiskers  and  a  pseudo-English  accent 
which  tripped  and  fell  over  "  idea "  and 
"  law,"  which,  he  thought,  ended  in  "  r." 
He  was  the  author  of  two  anaemic  novels 
which  teemed  with  literary  allusions,  French 
phrases,  and  preternaturally  precocious  con- 
versations. They  bespoke  an  easy  familiar- 
ity with  various  streets  and  scenes  of  the 
European  capitals — or  else  with  Baedeker 
— went  skin-deep  into  life,  and  were  great- 
ly admired  by  a  certain  type  of  female,  to 
whom  they  furnished  an  illusion  of  literature 
and  did  no  more  harm  than  playing  an 
aeolian. 

The  lecture  was  symmetrically  composed 
and  gracefully  delivered,  with  many  fine 
periods,  filled  with  plump  literary  words — 
just  as  his  text-book  says  they  ought  to  be 
written.  He  spoke  of  "determining  influ- 
225 


The  Old  Reporter 

enc-es  "  and  "  up-lift "  and  "  envi-rone- 
ment "  and  used  other  interesting  phrases, 
fashionable  in  literary  circles  at  that  time. 
He  sprinkled  in  his  usual  number  of  quota- 
tions, which  showed  how  well-read  he  was 
and  that  he  considered  his  audience  well- 
read  too,  so  it  made  pleasant  feeling  all 
around. 

And  it  was  all  impressing  the  boy  with  the 
bright  eyes,  who  thought  it  must  be  fine  to 
know  so  much,  and  applauded  heartily  until 
the  professor  began  to  pronounce  the  rea- 
son for  the  sad  condition  of  our  modern 
literature.  "  The  unbridled,  licentious  news- 
paper press — with  its  ignorant  hordes  of 
hack-writers,  charlatans  .  .  .  the  morbid 
curiosity  of  the  modern  ubiquitous  re- 
porter," etc.,  as  usual. 

Young  Woods  wondered  how  the  other 
reporters  stood  it  so  calmly.  They  were  used 
to  such  things,  and  yawned  occasionally. 
They  were  quite  as  willing  to  write  about 
this  man's  views  of  the  press  as  anything 
else — and  the  more  words  they  got  in  the 
bigger  would  be  their  space-bills.  And  some 
of  them  asked  a  few  questions  when  they 
226 


The  Old  Reporter 

went  up  after  the  address  to  get  the  type- 
written selections  of  it  which  had  carefully 
been  manifolded  for  the  licentious  press  by 
the  young  professor  who  thought  he  was  a 
celebrity  getting  interviewed  and  tried  to  ap- 
pear accustomed  to  it.  But  young  Woods, 
red  in  the  face,  and  indignant  with  every- 
body, wanted  to  tell  them  all  that  he  was  a 
newspaper  man  and  glad,  proud  of  it,  hated 
them  all  for  insulting  his  high  and  noble 
"  calling  "  and  strode  out  of  the  room  with 
chin  high.  "  Who  is  this  man — what's  his 
family,  I'd  like  to  know?  "  he  exclaimed  to 
his  Southern  self — though  that  would  not 
seem  to  have  much  to  do  with  it. 

At  the  office  he  told  the  night  city  editor 
all  about  it  with  eloquence,  while  the  near- 
by copy  editor's  shoulders  shook. 

It  was  the  office's  first  introduction  to 
the  boy's  full-grown  vocabulary.  The  night 
city  editor,  Stone,  listened  to  most  of  it,  and 
then  said,  kindly,  "  I  see.  Write  it." 

Write  it!  The  young  Southerner  "de- 
clared "  he  would  not  lose  his  self-respect. 
"  You  just  ought  to  have  heard  him.  lie 
insulted  all  of  us." 

227 


The  Old  Reporter 

Then  Stone  looked  distrait,  and  so  the 
copy-readers  poised  pencils  to  listen ;  but,  as 
if  changing  his  mind,  Stone  asked,  "  What 
else  did  the  professor  say?  "  And  now  the 
office  had  its  first  exhibition  of  Woods's 
wondrous,  sponge  -  like  memory.  .  .  . 
"Anything  else?  .  .  .  Thank  you.  Go 
home  to  bed." 

The  next  morning  young  Woods,  whose 
sense  of  humor  was  as  embryonic  as  his  sense 
of  news,  had  to  read  it  twice  before  the 
thing  took  hold  of  him;  then  he  saw  some 
of  the  beauty  of  the  story  which  Stone  had 
written. 

It  was  not  sarcastic.  It  was  a  calm,  dis- 
passionate account,  apparently,  with  many 
quotations  from  the  little  professor's  paper, 
and  no  comment  at  all,  leaving  all  that  to 
the  reader — the  orthodox,  the  artistic  "  aloof- 
ness "  attitude,  for  lacking  which  the  young 
professor  in  his  class-room  was  wont  to 
patronize,  heartlessly,  a  man  by  the  name  of 
Thackeray. 

It  taught  young  Billy  volumes  about 
news — as  Stone  meant  it  to.  Also  it  set  Billy 
to  thinking  about  the  great  opportunity  of 
228 


The  Old  Reporter 

"  The  Press  "  for  pricking  shams  and  pre- 
senting "  The  Truth,"  and  he  prayed  that  he 
might  be  able  to  present  it  sincerely  and  dis- 
passionate and  to  "  always  get  both  sides  of 
the  story,"  as  they  told  him  he  must,  "  and 
not  to  give  a  damn  for  what  he  thought  or 
felt  about  it." 

That  is  a  trivial  story  perhaps,  but  in  the 
light  of  what  is  to  be  told  later  it  seems 
worth  while — just  as  the  men  in  the  office 
often  related  it  (especially  before  Billy),  be- 
cause it  seemed  so  odd  to  think  of  the  keen 
Billy  Woods  who  acquired  such  abnormal 
vision  in  seeing  "  fakes  "  in  everybody  and 
everything,  the  versatile  Billy  Woods,  who 
tracked  down  Simpson  the  poisoner  when 
all  the  detectives  failed,  and  meanwhile  con- 
tinued, for  a  certain  editorial  page,  his  series 
of  daily  poems  about  children,  which  most 
of  you  must  have  read,  though  neither  you 
nor  many  others  knew  who  wrote  them — 
the  wonderful  Billy  Woods  who  "  could  do 
both  Wall  Street  and  politics  " — and  equally 
well — the  adaptable,  the  convenient,  the 
cynical  Billy  Woods,  who  held  one  kind  of, 
229 


The  Old  Reporter 

political  belief  and  wrote  so  ardently  for  an- 
other; who  saw  and  despised  the  littleness 
of  big  people,  and  then  made  them  sound 
bigger  and  more  interesting — it  does  seem 
odd  to  think  of  him  as  the  lad  to  blush  and 
back  out  But  in  those  early  days  he  had 
feelings,  and  they  used  to  get  in  his  way. 
He  had  so  many  of  them.  They  were  what 
he  worked  with.  He  did  not  realize  that. 
Perhaps  the  office  did  not  realize  it. 

It  was  his  personal  feelings  that  made 
him  keep  up  his  acquaintances  so  long  in 
the  Southern  Colony  of  the  up-town  life  of 
the  city.  It  helped  him  through  the  week, 
like  many  an  other  lonely  hall-bed  roomer, 
if  a  warm-voiced  compatriot  seized  his  hand 
and  said — or  shouted,  "  What !  son  of  my 
dear  old  friend,  Dr.  Woods?  Well,  'pon 
my  word.  Yes,  I  declare,  you  look  just  like 
him.  My  lands!  how  that  old  man  can 
pray !  "  And  so  on,  ending  with  "  So  we'll 
expect  you  Sunday  evening.  The  girls  '11 
be  mighty  glad  to  see  you." 

He  even  went  to  dances  and  such  things 
when  he  could  get  the  night  off,  and  the 
older  generation  gossiping  around  the  edge 
230 


The  Old  Reporter 

of  the  floor  pointed  him  out  as  "  One  of  the 
Virginia  Woods.  Yes,  they're  all  fine- 
looking.  It  was  this  boy's  aunt  who  eloped 
with  the  Austrian,  don't  you  recollect,  that 
winter  in  Washington?  When  old  Dr. 
Woods  surprised  everybody  by  marrying 
again  she  was  so  sorry  for  this  boy — mere 
child  then — that  she  took  him  over  there 
with  her  and  kept  him  until  now  that  she 
has  too  many  children  of  her  own  to  look 
after  .  .  ."  And  all  this  made  the  young 
newspaper  man  more  interesting  to  some 
sorts  of  people ;  only  he  hated  to  have  them 
ask,  as  so  many  of  them  did,  looking  at  him 
as  if  he  were  a  curiosity,  "  what  depart- 
ment "  he  was  in. 

He  did  not  like  to  say  he  was  a  reporter 
because  nearly  every  one's  conception  of 
the  reporter  seemed  to  be  gained  from  those 
singular  creatures  who  scurried  around  on 
the  outskirts  of  social  functions  and  wrote 
down  more  or  less  interesting  names 
"  among  those  present." 

"  Because  you  are  so  seldom  the  source 
of  more  important  news,"  Billy  wanted  to 
say,  cuttingly,  for  he  did  not  consider  it  a 
231 


The  Old  Reporter 

humorous  situation  at  all.  He  always 
wanted  to  explain  that  there  were  two  kinds, 
reporters  and  society  reporters,  that  the 
latter  were  no  more  typical  of  the  vigorous 
writers  who  took  pride  in  their  work  of 
supplying  over  three-fourths  of  all  that  was 
read  in  Christendom,  than  those  meek  lit- 
tle lawyers  across  the  room  there,  whom 
he  frequently  saw  scudding  in  and  out  the 
court-house  with  papers  in  their  hands, 
were  the  representative  lights  of  the  New 
York  bar.  And  he  wanted  to  explain  that 
any  how  he  had  already  had  a  chance  to 
be  a  copy-editor,  and  that  he  had  refused 
because  he  could  not  sit  still  at  a  desk  for 
hours  and  read  and  tinker  with  other  men's 
stuff  and  get  impatient  and  nervous.  Per- 
haps it  was  because  he  was  an  artist  and 
must  create  "  stuff  "  of  his  own,  and  would 
have  done  so  even  if  he  had  kept  out  of 
newspaper  Work — a  different  sort  of  stuff, 
Southern  verse,  possibly,  and  then  he  would 
have  won  a  different  sort  of  fame. 

But  he  became  tired  of  explaining  all 
this,  before  he  became  tired  of  wanting  to 
explain  it;  while  down  in  the  other  world 
232 


The  Old  Reporter 

there  was  nothing  to  explain,  and  his  stories 
were  becoming  the  talk  of  Printing  House 
Square,  and  they  told  him  he  had  a  great 
career  before  him,  and  Billy  said,  "  Really, 
do  you  think  so?"  smiling  delightedly, 
"  Isn't  that  fine !  " 

Thus  the  bond  attaching  him  to  the  up- 
town organism  became  more  and  more 
stretched  as  time  and  his  success  as  a  news- 
paper-reporter went  on.  He  soon  became 
too  valuable  for  the  city  editor  to  spare  of- 
ten, and  even  when  an  engagement  was 
made  it  sometimes  had  to  be  broken,  which 
hostesses  quite  naturally  failed  to  under- 
stand. And  when  Billy's  one  "  day  off  " 
in  seven  came  around  it  seemed  such  a  waste 
of  time  to  spend  it  upon  stupid  conven- 
tional people  who  did  not  know  what  was 
going  on  in  the  world,  and  took  so  long  to 
think  that  it  made  him  nervous.  The  South- 
ern cotillions  were  no  longer  simple  and 
Southern,  for  the  committee  were  trying  to 
put  on  New  York  lugs,  said  Billy,  who 
thought  this  absurd.  .  .  .  Until  finally 
the  cord  was  snapped  entirely,  in  this  way: 

He  went  up  to  dine  with  some  old  friends 
233 


The  Old  Reporter 

of  his  family's  who  had  some  guests  from 
Georgia ;  and  Billy  knew  so  many  interest- 
ing things  to  tell  about  Bohemia,  they  said. 
He  did  not  want  to  go,  and  though  plenty 
of  men  and  women,  in  New  York,  tried 
strenuously  to  be  Bohemian,  there  was 
nothing  very  Bohemian  in  New  York,  as  it 
seemed  to  Billy,  who  had  had  a  glimpse  of 
the  real  thing.  However,  when  Bohemia 
was  what  they  wanted,  the  young  reporter 
would  generally  talk  about  it,  improvising 
as  he  went  along,  and  warming  up  to  his  art 
and  enjoying  it  when  he  found  the  whole 
table-ful  stopping  to  listen  to  him. 

After  this  dinner,  when  they  were  smok- 
ing, Billy  shut  up  and  the  other  two  men 
guests  began  to  talk  about  the  railroad 
deal  for  which  they  had  come  up  to  New 
York.  Like  many  of  these  Southern  fellows 
they  talked  too  much.  Woods,  who  with 
his  training  was  becoming  that  agreeable 
thing,  a  good  listener  as  well  as  talker,  sat 
there  looking  impressed  and  impractical  and 
said  he  thought  it  was  all  "  mighty  "  inter- 
esting. The  next  morning  The  Day  had 
some  Wall  Street  news  that  no  other  paper 
234 


The  Old  Reporter 

had,  and  that  made  things  hum  over  in  one 
comer  of  the  Exchange  for  a  half-hour  after 
the  opening,  and  spoiled  a  daring  scheme 
for  his  host's  two  friends  and  his  own  friend- 
ship with  his  host  and  other  friendships  also, 
when  the  tale  went  around  the  Southern  So- 
ciety, out  of  which  Billy  now  dropped  al- 
together. 

The  young  newspaper  man  was  penitent, 
pitifully  so,  and  bobbed  his  head,  and  agreed 
with  all  that  a  mutual  friend  said  to  him. 
"  And  don't  you  see  now  what  an  awful 
thing  you've  done,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  why  didn't  I  look  at  it  that 
way !  Isn't  it  awful,  but — my !  what  a  good 
story !  " 


II 


Now,  this  news  instinct  means  broadly 
an  abnormal  keenness  in  appreciating  what 
is  contemporaneously  interesting  to  the 
public — a  habit  of  mind  acquired  by  those 
who  deal  in  news,  just  as  various  other 
habits  of  mind  are  acquired  by  those  who 
deal  in  various  other  goods. 
235 


The  Old  Reporter 

Each  one  of  these  is  different,  but  all  have 
this  in  common:  Every  one  of  them  is 
acquired,  according  to  the  laws  of  compen- 
sation, at  the  expense  of  certain  other  senses 
or  sensibilities. 

Young  Billy  Woods,  with  his  shirt- 
bosom  shaking  as  he  saw  the  bigness  of 
"  the  story  "  in  what  he  was  hearing,  did  not 
stop  to  see  what  the  publication  of  it  would 
mean  to  his  host's  friends.  He  did  not  see, 
because,  though  he  looked  at  the  same  facts, 
it  was  not  from  the  same  point  of  view. 
They  were  business  men  and  it  was  their 
job  to  make  deals. 

He  was  a  newspaper  man  and  it  was  his 
job  to  make  interesting  reading.  It  was 
their  right  to  make  deals,  even  though  they 
would  thereby  render  certain  securities  of 
other  worthy  men  and  women  almost 
worthless.  So,  was  it  not  his  right  to  make 
interesting  reading  even  though  it  would 
hurt  the  schemes  of  eminently  solvent  men 
for  getting  richer  ? 

But,  of  course,  he  realized  now,  as  he 
stayed  awake  at  night,  that  it  was  outrage- 
ous to  print  facts  related,  very  unwisely,  at  a 
236 


The  Old  Reporter 

friend's  dinner-table,  but  he  did  not  realize 
why  he  had  not  stopped  to  think  of  that. 

It  was  because  he  was  thinking  so  hard  of 
the  other  thing.  That  shows  the  tendency 
of  these  acquired  senses. 

When,  however,  facts  were  seen  by  the 
reporter  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  re- 
ported, he  could  be  as  human,  or  as  in- 
humane, as  any  other  busy,  ambitious 
young  man.  His  experience,  a  year  or  two 
later,  with  the  "  white-mustached-high-liv- 
ing-lawyer  "  will  show  it. 

Now  Billy  Woods  by  this  time  had 
learned  something  about  everything  in  the 
big  strenuous  city,  from  Harlem  to  the  Bat- 
tery, and  beyond  and  below.  Perhaps  he 
knew  more  than  any  youth  of  his  age  in  it 
about  the  manifold  interests  of  a  metropolis 
and  its  various  inhabitants ;  their  personal 
characteristics  and  their  office  hours,  their 
social  positions  and  their  business  worth, 
their  Christian  beliefs  and  their  heathen 
practices.  That  is  the  reason  that  nearly 
everybody  he  ran  across  fell  into  categories 
in  the  young  man's  mind.  Whenever  he 
found  a  new  type  it  was  a  refreshing  sur- 
237 


The  Old  Reporter 

prise.    After  awhile  there  were  no  more 
new  ones. 

He  was  as  guileless  looking  as  ever,  but  he 
sometimes  had  considerable  fun  with  them 
when  they  undertook  to  patronize  him,  es- 
pecially the  young,  dapper  ones,  who  softly 
slide  into  positions  made  or  left  for  them  in 
the  down-town  world  by  wealth  or  influ- 
ence, and  thus  miss  a  valuable  life-lesson 
or  two. 

He  usually  let  them  think  they  were  im- 
pressing him,  when  he  conveniently  could, 
looking  innocent  and  awed,  because  they 
enjoyed  it  so  much,  and  he  did  not  mind 
now,  any  more  than  he  resented  the  pity  of 
kind  women  who  thought  he  had  sad  eyes 
and  insisted  on  giving  him  cake  and  lemon- 
ade at  their  conventions,  and  then  consid- 
ered him  very  ill-bred  next  morning  up- 
on seeing  themselves  gently  ridiculed  in 
the  "article,"  which  was  written  as- Billy 
Woods's  employer  told  him  to  write  it. 

It  was  one  of  this  younger  down-town 
type  that  Billy  had  first  to  deal  with  now, 
teeming  with  importance,  as  Woods  could 
tell  from  the  way  he  said  "  Well,  sir." 
238 


The  Old  Reporter 

The  reporter,  bowing  in  his  suave  South- 
ern way,  respectfully  asked  to  see  the  head 
of  the  firm,  the  young  man's  father. 

"  Engaged  at  present,"  was  the  reply. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"  I'll  wait,  if  I  may  make  so  bold,"  said 
Billy. 

"  I  represent  him,"  said  the  other,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair.  "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  said  Billy. 

"  What  do  you  want — he  has  nothing  to 
say  to  reporters  anyway." 

"  Possibly ;  but  if  you  don't  mind  I'd 
rather  have  his  word  for  that." 

"What's  that!  I  tell  you  I  represent 
him." 

"  Not  very  well,  however." 

"  What  do  you  mean !  " 

"  He  has  better  manners,  for  instance." 

"  See  here " 

— "  And  a  softer  voice — and — really  ? 
Oh,  please,  don't  do  so  much  to  me  as  all 
that.  You  see  it  would  not  do,  really  now, 
for  me  to  leave,  because  your  father  has  not 
yet  talked  to  me.  I  think  you'll  find  that 
he  will  come  out  and  talk  to  me  in  a  mo- 
239 


The  Old  Reporter 

ment  now.  What's  that  ?  Oh,  no,  no,  no, 
I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you.  In  fact,  if  I  were 
you  I'd  go  back  to  my  little  desk,  for  really 
you're  getting  red  in  the  face  and  making 
a  scene,  young  man,  before  all  your  father's 
clerks.  If  you'd  turn  around  suddenly 
you'd  see  them  laughing  at  you.  Ah,  Col- 
onel, how  do  you  do  " — for  the  father  was 
now  coming  out  of  the  inner  office,  saying, 
"  What's  this !  what's  this !  " 

"  Your  son  was  of  the  opinion  that  you 
did  not  care  to  talk  to  The  Day.  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  of  differing  with  him,"  and 
then  Billy  stated  his  business,  adding,  em- 
phatically, "  But  if  you  do  not  want  to  talk 

about  this  matter "  The  Colonel  did 

not  want  to  talk,  but  he  wanted  to  have 
some  fun  with  the  reporter,  so  he  led  him 
on. 

He  ought  not  to  have  done  this,  for  re- 
porters are  apt  to  be  as  quick  as  lawyers 
even  at  thinking  and  speaking,  and  this  par- 
ticular reporter  when  he  became  excited,  as 
he  now  was,  could  say  off-hand  what  most1 
people  cannot  think  of  until  trying  to  go 
to  sleep  at  night.  "  Well,  Mr.  Reporter," 
240 


The  Old  Reporter 

the  white  mustache  was  presently  saying, 
sneeringly,  "  you  seem  to  know  so  much 
about  my  brother  and  his  affairs,  why  don't 
you  go  and  ask  him?  " 

The  red-faced  son  was  leering  at  Woods, 
who  replied,  "  I  don't  know  his  address,  do 
you?" 

"  Oh,  ho !  you  can't  lead  me  into  telling 
you  in  that  way.  I'm  a  lawyer,  young 
man,"  and  the  clerks  laughed. 

"  You  don't  know  where  he  is  either," 
said  Woods.  "  It's  a  matter  of  opinion 
now." 

"  You  don't  say  so,"  remarked  the  other, 
scornfully ;  "  and  how  is  it  a  matter  of 
opinion  ?  " 

"  Your  brother,"  said  Billy,  suddenly, 
"  blew  his  brains  out  an  hour  ago,  and  that's 
the  reason  I'm  down  here."  Then  the  law- 
yer flopped  down  flat  upon  the  rug  as  Billy 
had  never  seen  happen  off  the  stage. 

When  he  came  to  he  wanted  to  know  all 
that  Woods  knew;  he  was  pitifully  docile. 
Woods  told  him,  but  not  without  also  ex- 
tracting what  he  wanted  to  know. 

It  was  not  interesting  to  Woods — not  as 
241 


The  Old  Reporter 

interesting  as  it  might  be  to  many  of  you. 
He  was  sick  of  dead,  dissipated  brothers 
with  "  horrible  lessons "  to  young  men 
newly  rich.  But  he  considered  it  his  busi- 
ness to  get  the  news,  even  though  he  had  to 
adopt  means  not  dissimilar  to  those  em- 
ployed in  cross-examinations  by  this  same 
successful  lawyer,  who  was  now  realizing 
what  he  had  let  out  and  what  it  would  mean 
if  made  public. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Billy,  shaking  his 
head.  "  But  the  next  time  " — opening  the 
door — "  you'll  have  more  respect  for  The 
Day.  If  you  do  not  care  to  talk,  you  should 
always  say  so.  Then  you  will  not  be  liable 
to  mention  things  which,  as  you  say,  will 
disgrace  your  family  and  your  firm  when 
published.  Little  boy,  why  don't  you  see 
to  your  father.  He's  almost  hysterical.  I 
wish  you  all  good-day,"  and  Billy  slammed 
the  door,  feeling  dramatic. 

The  next  morning,  after  a  sleepless  night, 
the  white-mustached  lawyer  crept  down- 
stairs in  his  bath-robe,  opened  the  paper, 
which  shook,  and  read  that  Colonel  So-and- 
so  when  asked  by  a  Day  reporter  to  make 
242 


The  Old  Reporter 

a  statement,  replied  "  That  he  had  nothing 
to  say."  .  .  .  But  he  did  not  know  how 
much  of  a  sacrifice  that  lie  meant  to  the 
impudent  young  reporter,  nor  the  kind  of  a 
sacrifice,  obviously,  for  later  in  the  day  a 
check  came  from  the  white-mustached  law- 
yer with  a  note,  which  Billy,  angrily  ringing 
for  a  messenger,  did  not  read  through.  It 
was  just  as  well  this  did  not  come  before 
the  paper  went  to  press. 

"  I  suppose  it  serves  me  right,"  said  the 
reporter  when  he  had  cooled  down,  "  for 
letting  my  personal  feelings  come  into  my 
business  relations.  This  lawyer  never  does ; 
therefore  he  could  not  understand  it  in  any- 
one else." 

That  was  not  the  sort  of  experience  to 
curb  the  news  instinct.  Very  few  of  the 
reporter's  experiences  were. 

And  as  he  became  an  older  and  better 
reporter  he  naturally  was  less  given  to 
thinking  of  how  the  other  fellow  felt  about 
it.  That  was  not  the  reporter's  job ;  it  was 
to  get  the  news,  and  he  generally  got  it 
when  once  he  saw  his  "  story  in  it." 

The  men  often  said  that  the  city  editor  al- 
243 


The  Old  Reporter 

ways  watched  Billy's  eyes  when  giving  in- 
structions about  an  assignment,  and  if  the 
eyes  did  not  brighten  then  he  knew  that 
Woods  did  not  see  his  story  in  it  and  usually 
gave  him  something  else.  Not  all  members 
of  the  staff  were  so  favored. 

But  when  Woods  did  see  his  story,  and 
had  excitedly  grabbed  some  copy-paper, 
and  the  cane  which  he  never  forgot,  no  mat- 
ter how  many  overcoats  and  gloves  he  shed 
about  town,  and  had  marched  eagerly  out 
of  the  room  with  the  grinning  office-boys 
watching  to  see  whether  he  put  his  hat  on 
or  carried  it  in  his  hand  this  time — nobody 
knew  quite  how  he  was  so  successful  in 
scenting  and  flushing  and  retrieving  the 
news.  Perhaps  he  did  not  either.  He  was 
always  half  crazy  until  he  finished  his  job, 
and  had  returned,  sometimes  on  the  run,  to 
the  office,  where  he  wrote  furiously  and  filed 
the  copy,  smiling  excitedly  and  sighing  joy- 
fully. 

He  had  no  rules  about  holding  peoples' 
eyes  or  studying  their  weaknesses  or  ad- 
dressing them  frequently  by  name.  He 
never  planned  beforehand  how  he  was  go- 
244 


The  Old  Reporter 

ing  to  approach  a  man  or  woman ;  he  knew 
how  automatically,  the  men  in  the  office 
said.  It  is  true  that  he  did  it  automatically, 
but  it  was  not  from  what  he  knew  but  what 
he  felt. 

The  city  editor  had  discovered  a  way  of 
making  Billy's  eyes  "brighten,  whether  the 
owner  wanted  them  to  or  not.  That  is  the 
reason  Woods  had  been  handling  so  many 
of  the  "  hard  to  get "  assignments  of  late 
instead  of  the  "  color  "  descriptions  at  which 
he  had  made  his  first  hit.  "  In  fact,  there  is 
no  one  in  town,"  the  suave  city  editor  would 
say,  "  that  could  handle  this  story  as  you 
could,  if  you  care  to  take  it." 

"  Well,  let  me  try.  I'll  do  what  I  can," 
for  Billy  was  only  human. 

Not  that  he  spent  all  his  days  pulling 
words  out  of  unwilling  people;  quite  as 
many  fawned  upon  him  and  tried  to  be  hail- 
fellow-well-met  with  him  as  did  the  other 
thing;  as  many  lied  to  get  themselves  in 
print  as  to  stay  out.  And  he  had  heard  so 
many  of  them  say,  with  more  or  less  dignity, 
"  Oh,  no,  we  do  not  wish  you  to  mention 
us  in  the  paper,"  and  so  often  he  had  seen 
245 


The  Old  Reporter 

at  the  same  time  the  sudden  swelling  of 
vanity  at  being  approached  by  The  Press 
that  he  seldom  believed  even  the  sincere 
ones  any  more,  and  idly  speculated  on  how 
many  extra  copies  they  would  buy — though 
you  would  never  dream  it  from  the  way  he 
said,  "  Certainly ;  I  appreciate  your  situa- 
tion." 

Nor  were  these  latter  experiences  of  a 
sort  to  discourage  the  growth  of  his  pro- 
fessional instincts — which  grow  according 
to  the  laws  of  compensation. 

Billy  Woods  was  not  the  only  boy  in  the 
big  town  who  was  getting  his  eyes  opened. 

The  young  son  of  the  lawyer  who  at- 
tempted to  reward  the  reporter  was  also 
learning  considerable  about  the  less  admi- 
rable side  of  human  nature — like  everyone 
else  in  the  active  world — and  possibly  he 
was  "  losing  his  ideals,"  as  they  sometimes 
sadly  say.  But  in  place  of  the  false  and 
pretty  ideals  of  boyhood,  he  acquired,  or 
ought  to  have,  a  grown  man's  wholesome 
conception  of  approximate  reality.  For 
however  much  of  the  wrong,  the  abnormal 
246 


The  Old  Reporter 

side  of  life  he  came  in  contact  with,  he  also 
saw  plenty  of  the  normal  side  in  his  busi- 
ness, or  after  office-hours,  at  least. 

But  the  reporter  had  little  to  do  with  any- 
thing normal,  because  his  job  was  to  hunt 
and  handle  The  News,  which  means  the  in- 
teresting, the  unusual,  surprising,  shocking, 
remarkable,  wonderful,  wicked,  horrible — 
not  the  commonplace,  the  expected,  the 
normal. 

He  had  very  little  to  do  with  the  ninety- 
nine  worthy  ministers  of  the  gospel  who 
were  neither  spectacular  preachers  jumping 
at  a  chance  to  be  interviewed  and  advertised, 
nor  puppet-like  little  curates  with  absurd 
voices  and  lady-like  manners.  He  had  very 
little  to  do  with  their  solid  church  pillars 
who  did  not  fall.  He  had  very  little  to  do 
with  the  parish's  ninety-nine  nice  little  mar- 
ried couples  that  did  not  get  tired  of  each 
other. 

The  Day  was  no  yellow  journal,  but  it  was 
not  conducted  for  fun.  It  published  what 
the  intelligent  classes  of  a  great  city  would 
buy.  This  did  not  include  such  items  as 
"John  Smith  is  still  living  in  peace  and 
247 


The  Old  Reporter 

happiness  with  his  wife  and  children  at  No. 
so-and-so-tieth  Street,"  which  is  right  and 
normal,  but  not  news,  nor  very  interesting 
reading  to  you. 

Look  at  the  head-lines  of  to-day's  paper 
and  you  may  see  what  sort  of  facts  this 
bright-eyed  boy  was  stuffing  himself  with 
all  his  long  working  day,  which,  also,  was 
abnormal,  extending  far  into  the  night  in- 
tended for  rest.  When  he  had  finished  work 
it  was  time  to  go  to  bed,  and  when  he  got 
up  next  day  it  was  time  to  go  to  work.  And 
to-day's  work  was  digging  out,  and  feeling 
and  handling  more  abnormality — with  little 
chance  to  recuperate,  like  most  of  the  other 
hard-workers  of  the  city,  by  rubbing  un- 
professionally  against  fellow-humans  with 
other  ways  of  living  and  working  and  think- 
ing. 

How  was  he  to  guess  at  the  mistake  he 
was  making?  He  saw  in  a  week  more  bare 
reality,  and  more  sorts  of  it,  than  most  of 
you  run  across  in  a  year.  Therefore  he 
thought  he  knew  the  truth  about  life  and 
human  nature,  and  smiled  pityingly  at  the 
ignorance  of  dear  old  fools  like  his  father. 
248 


The  Old  Reporter 

What  the  reporter  knew  was  true  indeed, 
but  there  were  other  things  equally  true, 
and  these  he  did  not  know — even  when  he 
saw  them,  which  was  so  seldom  that  he 
called  them  "  fakes."  He  was  not  quite 
twenty-one. 

He  never  told  anyone  about  all  this. 
There  was  no  one  to  tell.  What  if  there 
had  been?  You  might  remind  a  Cornwall 
lad  in  the  bottom  of  a  mine  that  there  was 
a  good,  warm  sun  shining  on  the  hill-side 
overhead.  That  would  not  cure  his  pale- 
ness. 

When  he  got  through  working  it  was 
time  to  go  to  bed.  He  did  not  go  immedi- 
ately to  bed.  He  would  not  have  gone  to 
sleep  if  he  had.  .  .  .  And  now  I  have 
told  the  true  story  of  how  young  Billy  got 
into  the  way  of  drinking  more  than  was 
good  for  him.  It  was  not  to  help  him  get 
news  out  of  men,  because  conviviality,  he 
thought,  was  too  personal  a  thing  to  use  it 
in  business,  where  he  dealt  with  people,  few 
of  whom  he  considered  his  social  equals. 
It  was  not  to  make  him  write  better  copy, 
because  he  was  an  artist  and  strained  with 
249 


The  Old  Reporter 

all  that  was  in  him  after  the  ideal — which 
no  one  ever  reaches,  but  which  kept  him 
keyed  up  all  day,  and  then  let  him  down  so 
hard  when  the  paper  went  to  press. 

He  had  always  been  too  busy  with  ex- 
terior sights  and  sounds  to  be  troubled  with 
in-growing  thoughts,  but  when  midnight 
came,  and  he  had  wound  up  his  last  story, 
and  had  nothing  else  to  be  intense  over — 
with  nerves  stretched  and  hand  trembling 
— there  came  disquieting  sensations  which 
sometimes  made  him  feel — but  he  knew  a 
way  to  get  rid  of  these  feelings. 

Billy  Woods  not  only  drank,  but  he  got 
drunk.  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  know 
when  to  stop ;  of  course  he  knew  when  to 
stop.  Nor  did  a  "  demon  "  get  into  him,  as 
they  say  in  the  temperance  tracts;  he  did 
not  want  to  stop.  He  got  drunk  because  he 
liked  it.  It  was  glorious.  And  everything 
swung  around,  soothingly  straightened  out, 
and  became  sunny  and  warm.  The  world 
was  beautiful  and  lovable,  as  when  he  was 
a  kid  down  home ;  and  he  believed  you  to 
be  worthy  of  his  liking  once  more,  and  even 
of  his  respect,  and  he  glowed  and  was  glad, 
250 


The  Old  Reporter 

and  gave  his  watch  and  pocket-book  to  the 
waiters. 

He  grew  a  little  older.  He  digested  some 
of  his  too  suddenly  acquired  knowledge. 
As  with  other  young  men,  his  business  be- 
came more  of  a  business  and  less  of  a  per- 
sonal experience.  It  was  an  old  story  now, 
like  death  and  disease  to  doctors. 

Doctors  can  get  an  occasional  respite. 
They  dine  out  sometimes  and  meet  healthy 
people  and  can,  though  not  all  do,  keep  nor- 
mal and  well-balanced. 

Billy  Woods  also  must  have  some  sort  of 
recreation,  and  his  social  instinct,  too,  was 
indestructible,  like  yours.  By  the  time  the 
theatres  and  music  halls  were  dark,  what 
kind  of  fun  could  he  get  and  what  sort  of 
society  had  he  to  choose  from?  To  go 
to  a  lonely  club  library  and  read  while  a 
loud  clock  ticked,  after  writing  all  day,  was 
loathsome.  He  required  something  ro- 
bust and  exciting,  like  all  the  intense  sort. 
There  are  only  a  few  things  to  do  after  the 
paper  goes  to  press.  Billy  did  them. 

The  next  day  he  reported — nearly  always, 
at  the  office  of  the  newspaper  for  which  he 
25* 


The  Old  Reporter 

was  doing  perhaps  the  most  brilliant  work 
of  his  sort  in  the  Western  hemisphere.  He 
kept  a  packed  suit-case  down  there  now,  for 
he  never  knew  when  he  took  his  bath  in 
the  morning  where  he  would  take  off  his 
clothes — if  at  all — the  following  night.  He 
was  the  great  Billy  Woods. 


Ill 


Mr.  Woods,  the  American  reporter  (or 
"  correspondent "  as  that  sounds  more  im- 
pressive), who  had  penetrated  a  part  of  In- 
dia—  from  which  all  the  English  journalists, 
it  is  said,  held  back — in  order  to  write  those 
memorable  letters  to  The  Day  about  the 
Plague ;  who  had  discovered  a  new  tribe — 
at  least,  as  to  local  color — in  Patagonia; 
who  had  described  oil-well  booms  in  Ohio, 
Indian-uprisings  in  the  Bad  Lands,  moun- 
tain feuds  in  Kentucky,  was  back  at  general 
work  again  in  New  York.  He  couldn't 
keep  away.  He  said  he  liked  the  smell  of 
The  Day  office,  and  had  to  look  at  Madison 
Square  at  least  once  in  every  twenty-four 
252 


The  Old  Reporter 

hours.  Also,  his  dyspepsia  was  not  so 
bothersome  as  when  he  was  travelling. 

"  I  should  think,"  said  one  of  his  young 
friends,  on  Woods's  return  from  one  of  these 
trips,  "  that  you  would  go  in  for  magazine 
work  now — or  write  books " 

"  And  sign  all  four  of  my  names  in  full  ?" 
returned  Woods,  "  and  write  in  the  first 
person  and  say  I  did  this  and  I  said  that? 
Why?  Aren't  newspapers  and  anonymity 
good  enough  for  you?  They  are  fdr  me. 
So  long  as  I  can  make  people  feel  things — 
that's  all  I  want.  Magazines  are  so  slow. 
It  took  that  one  two  months  to  turn  around 
on  the  Hawaiian  stuff  I  did  for  them — 
even  then  they  thought  they  were  beating 
a  rival  magazine — Oh,  Lord !  " 

But  the  young  friend  meant  why  didn't 
Woods  write  fiction,  or  try  a  play,  "  I  think 
you  could  do  it." 

Others  in  the  office  thought  he  could. 
Woods  thought  so,  too,  but  he  did  not  see 
why  anyone  should  want  to  write  fiction,  he 
said,  who  could  handle  news;  he  said  that 
facts  were  the  great  romantic  material  of 
this  unsuperstitious  age,  and  there  was  just 
253 


The  Old  Reporter 

as  much  room  for  art  in  the  proper  por- 
trayal of  news  as  of  imagined  facts  and,  "  It 
is  as  much  more  difficult  as  it  is  more  use- 
ful," said  Billy. 

This  was  quoted  by  his  little  crowd  of 
sycophants  who  flattered  him  and  helped 
him  spend  his  spacious  space  earnings, 
quite  like  the  hangers-on  of  other  great 
men. 

But  all  that  was  a  year  or  two  ago.  Of 
late  older  and  wiser  friends  of  Woods  had 
been  suggesting  changes. 

They  urged  him  to  get  into  some  line 
of  desk  work,  exchange,  or  telegraphic,  or 
features.  "  It  would  be  better  for  you," 
they  said. 

"  Too  slow,"  said  Billy,  "  couldn't  stand 
it  a  month." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  that  offer  of  the 
Senator's  ? "  the  managing  editor  once 
asked  him. 

"  Become  a  private  secretary !  be  an  un- 
derling and  answer  questions  all  day !  Be- 
sides, I  couldn't  live  on  the  salary." 

"  It's  a  good  beginning  for  a  political 
career." 

254 


The  Old  Reporter 

Billy  said  he'd  rather  be  a  gentleman. 

"  It  would  be  a  good  idea  for  you  to  get 
out  of  the  newspaper  life,"  said  the  manag- 
ing editor  at  another  time.  "  You've  got 
a  good  all-around  equipment  now  for " 

"  I  could  no  more  settle  down  to  a  roll- 
top-desk  life  than  Cherokee  Indians  can 
run  farms,"  said  Billy,  thanking  him. 

The  only  thing  they  could  get  him  inter- 
ested in  was  a  certain  foreign  correspond- 
ent's place,  which  was  about  to  be  vacant. 
"  You  can  speak  French  and  German  so 
well,"  they  said.  "  You've  lots  of  friends 
over  there,  and  you're  just  about  cynical 
and  superior  enough  for  a  correspondent." 
Billy  became  quite  enthusiastic  and  excited, 
but  forgot  to  keep  his  appointment  with 
the  chief  in  regard  to  it,  and  the  chief  said 
he  was  getting  tired  of  doing  so  much  for 
a  man  that  did  so  little  for  himself.  Billy 
was  not  so  very  sorry. 

"  Little,  old  New  York  is  good  enough  for 
me,"  he  said,  "  even  though  they  do  make 
me  read  copy  occasionally.  I  wonder  why 
they  do."  Formerly  they  said  he  was  too 
good  for  it. 

255 


The  Old  Reporter 

He  still  disliked  reading  copy  as  much 
as  he  loved  to  fly  around  the  town,  with  his 
glasses  sliding  down  his  nose,  after  big 
news.  "  It's  the  only  way  to  live,"  he  said. 
"  I  expect  to  die  out  on  a  story." 

It  might  seem  strange  that  he  enjoyed  it 
all.  He  had  seen  so  much  that  his  personal 
zest  in  seeing  things  had  worn  out  long  ago. 
Every  sort  of  occurrence,  every  sort  of  hu- 
man situation,  every  sort  of  human  char- 
acter was  as  old  and  familiar  to  him  as  the 
streets  of  New  York,  which  he  knew  so 
well  that,  looking  out  of  an  elevated  win- 
dow, between  stations,  no  matter  what  part 
of  the  island  it  was  or  how  long  he  might 
have  been  asleep  and  oblivious  to  the 
guard's  voice,  he  could  give  you  the  name 
of  the  street  "  just  by  the  feel  of  it,"  he  said, 
and  usually  a  reminiscence  of  some  story 
he  had  worked  up  in  that  street,  too. 

Similarly,  the  manifestation  of  all  human 
emotions  seemed  to  him  old,  stale,  and 
somewhat  absurd. 

Not  that  he  was  cynical.  He  was  beyond 
that.  Cynicism  is  more  or  less  active.  He 
had  reached  a  sort  of  passive,  premature 
256 


The  Old  Reporter 

mellowness.  He  had  a  way  of  bestowing 
benignant  attention  upon  men  and  women 
and  affairs.  But  the  only  personal  interest 
things  held  for  him  now  was  their  news 
possibility,  just  as  many  good  business  men 
can  appreciate  only  real  estate  values  or  in- 
dustrial possibilities  in  scenery. 

But  while  his  eye  for  news — "  nose  for 
news  "  is  the  technical  term — was  so  keen, 
his  ability  to  make  other  people  feel  the 
story  he  saw  was  a  different  matter.  As 
different  as  sympathy  is  from  knowledge. 

Every  sort  of  passion  and  situation  had 
so  long  ceased  to  mystify,  charm,  repell  or 
awe  him  that  now  he  was  forgetting  how 
other  people  who  had  not  lived  so  fast  were 
mystified,  charmed,  repelled,  or  awed.  That 
is  what  one  writes  with.  He  knew  too 
much.  He  had  forgotten  his  ignorance. 

He  did  not  know  what  he  had  lost. 

All  he  knew  was  that  they  kept  repeat- 
ing at  the  office  that  his  stories  somehow 
lacked  their  former  sparkle  and  human  in- 
terest. "  For  Heaven's  sake,"  said  the 
managing  editor,  one  day,  "  let  up  on  those 
old  worn-out  phrases.  Get  some  new  sten- 
257 


The  Old  Reporter 

cils."  Billy,  whose  pride  had  been  stung 
much  more  than  they  imagined,  had  been 
trying  to  pour  sparkle  and  human  interest 
into  his  stuff  by  means  of  a  few  more  drinks, 
hurriedly  snatched  on  the  way  to  the  office, 
"  just  to  get  into  the  mood,"  he  told  himself. 
"  My  digestion  is  all  off  to-day,  anyhow." 

He  knew  the  danger  of  this.  He  knew 
it  as  well  as  do  some  physicians.  He  could 
demonstrate  with  the  technical  terms  very 
glibly  just  why  it  was  especially  to  be 
avoided  by  a  man  with  a  temperament  like 
his.  He  wrote  a  Sunday  special  upon  this. 


IV 


The  time  had  come  for  Billy  Woods  to 
learn  something  he  had  never  believed  in 
since  a  boy;  something  that  was  to  wipe 
out  many  of  the  effects  of  his  ill-assorted 
knowledge,  replace  belief  in  other  good 
things,  putting  him  in  tune  with  Nature 
once  more  and  keeping  him  warm  and 
normal — for  life,  perhaps  .  .  .  But  she 
died  .  .  .  Maybe  it  was  just  as  well. 
258 


The  Old  Reporter 


For  several  months  after  he  "  left  The 
Day  "  Billy  Woods  did  not  take  a  regular 
job  on  any  staff,  though  plenty  of  city  ed- 
itors tried  to  get  him.  Along  the  Row 
Billy's  reason  for  this  was  smilingly  said  to 
be  fear  that  he  would  forget  and  absent- 
mindedly  walk  into  The  Day  office  from 
force  of  habit,  as  he  had  done  once  before 
with  another  paper's  beat,  after  The  Day 
had  tried  to  discharge  him.  There  are 
many  tales  about  Billy  Woods  along  the 
Row.  The  real  reason  was  a  sentimental 
one,  as  his  old  friends  knew,  a  boyish, 
grand-stand,  "  true  to  my  first  love  "  sort 
of  loyalty,  and  Billy  was  rather  pleased  with 
himself  for  it. 

Many  of  those  who  left  The  Day,  as  soon 
as  they  had  discovered  from  the  perspective 
point  of  view  that  there  were  also  other 
ways  of  regarding  facts  and  writing  about 
them  than  The  Day's  way,  learned  straight- 
way to  criticise  their  former  paper,  point- 
ing out  its  complacent  cock-sureness  and 
259 


The  Old  Reporter 

snarling  vindictiveness,  meanwhile  keeping 
on  reading  it  till  they  died. 

Billy  never  said  a  disparaging  word  about 
it,  and  if  anyone  else  tried  to  in  his  pres- 
ence, he  would  stand  up  like  a  son  for  the 
family  that  has  banished  him.  He  was  al- 
most childish  about  it.  "  No  wonder," 
some  of  the  men  said,  "  The  Day  indulged 
him  more  than  any  paper  ever  did  anyone 
else." 

So  now  the  ex-star  of  The  Day  was  doing 
specials.  "  I  ought  to  be  able  to  get  along 
well  as  a  free  lance,"  he  said.  His  friends 
thought  so,  too.  But  he  did  not  get  along 
very  well. 

Free  lancing  is  precarious  for  the  most 
industrious.  Billy  was  not  lazy,  but  he  had 
for  so  long  been  writing  what  he  was  told 
to  write,  in  the  way  he  was  told  to  write  it, 
that  he  did  not  know  how  to  work  now 
without  a  boss  over  him.  He  had  sub- 
ordinated his  own  personality  to  that  of  the 
paper's  for  so  long  that  now  his  own  was 
afraid  to  speak. 

"  How  are  you  getting  along,  Billy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  first-rate.  It's  great  to  be  inde- 
260 


The  Old  Reporter 

pendent,"  said  Billy,  assuming  the  jaunty 
manner  of  the  prosperous  and  contented. 
To  those  who  knew  him  well  it  was  pathet- 
ically plain  that  he  was  not  content,  and 
they  were  soon  made  to  learn  that  he  was 
not  prosperous.  Billy  was  as  likely  to  for- 
get that  he  had  borrowed  as,  in  his  affluent 
days,  that  he  had  loaned. 

When  he  signified  his  willingness  to  do 
general  work  once  more,  he  was  seized 
and  used  by  another  paper,  and  he  did  some 
big  things  before  he  left  it,  but  it  was  never 
with  the  spirit  with  which  he  worked  for 
The  Day.  It  was  an  eminently  respectable 
sheet,  but  Billy  had  little  respect  for  it.  He 
patronized  it,  thought  it  was  sleepy,  told 
the  desk  they  could  not  appreciate  a  Day 
story,  and  that  they  took  all  the  life  and 
sparkle  out  of  his  copy.  They  called  it 
cheap  flippancy. 

He  threatened  to  resign,  but  did  not  have 
a  chance  to.  He  came  down  to  the  office 
one  morning  and  found  a  notice  in  his  letter- 
box. Ten  other  men  and  a  woman  re- 
ceived similar  notes.  It  was  nothing  un- 
usual, just  a  little  bi-monthly  shake-up, 
261 


The  Old  Reporter 

decided  upon  in  ten  minutes.  That  is  the 
way  it  is  done  in  many  a  newspaper  office. 
Billy  told  the  desk  that  that  was  not  the 
way  they  discharged  men  from  The  Day. 
"  You  ought  to  know,"  said  the  city  editor. 
And  for  once  Billy  had  no  reply  to  make. 

To  those  who  asked  him  what  he  was 
doing  these  days,  Billy  said  he  was  still 
writing  "  that  book,"  and  to  anyone  that 
would  stop  to  listen,  he  gave  interesting  ac- 
counts of  how  various  publishers  were 
fighting  for  it.  "  Look  at  this  letter — oh, 
I  find  I  left  it  at  the  room,  on  the  mantel- 
piece, I  think;  no,  in  my  other  coat,"  but 
he  would  tell  in  detail  what  this  one  said 
and  that  one  said.  It  was  good,  sprightly 
dialogue.  "  Look  at  some  of  the  stuff  that 
gets  printed  and  bound  and  is  called  a 
book !  "  Billy  would  exclaim,  excitedly,  "  I 
ought  to  be  able  to  write  a  book.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  "  They  thought  he  ought, 
and  went  on  about  their  business.  "  Good- 
by,"  shouted  Billy,  "  I'll  send  you  a  com- 
plimentary copy  when  it  comes  out." 

Like  many  another  newspaper  man  he 
262 


The  Old  Reporter 

had  two  or  three  unfinished  novels  in  an 
old  trunk,  and  it  was  on  these  that  some  of 
his  friends  had  been  urging  him,  not  alto- 
gether disinterestedly,  to  get  to  work,  in- 
stead of  loafing  around,  waiting  for  things 
to  turn  up.  Billy  used  to  say,  "  I  don't  feel 
like  it  to-day.  Oh,  they're  no  good,  any- 
way." 

When  he  had  finally  persuaded  himself  to 
write  something,  it  seemed  so  poor  and  im- 
possible as  he  looked  up  at  the  thing  far 
above  him  at  which  he  aimed  and  strained. 
He  did  not  realize  that  it  is  not  given  to 
mere  man  to  touch  the  thing  he  sighed  for. 
He  stared  and  stared,  and  then  read  and  re- 
read what  he  had  created  until  he  loathed 
it.  To  run  away  from  it  was  a  necessity. 

.  Finally,  when  they  said  they 
could  lend  him  no  more  money,  they  pre- 
vailed upon  him  to  write  and  finish  some- 
thing. It  was  something  quite  different. 

Did  you  ever  hear  who  wrote  those 
greasy  little  publications  you  have  seen  A. 
D.  T.  boys  bending  over  in  elevated  trains 
"  Crack !  and  a  rifle  shot  broke  the  Sab- 
bath stillness  of  the  air,  and  seven  bronzed 
263 


The  Old  Reporter 

warriors  lay  stiff  at  the  feet  of  Deadly 
Dick?"  Newspaper  men  write  many  of 
them.  Billy  wrote  one — just  for  fun — and 
the  publisher  asked  for  more,  compliment- 
ing Woods  on  the  way  he  did  it.  So  with 
the  next  Billy  foolishly  began  to  take  pains. 
He  had  all  the  time  he  wanted,  and  again 
the  artist  in  him  began  to  assert  itself;  he 
took  it  seriously,  even  though  it  was  a  bur- 
lesque, consequently  became  dissatisfied, 
began  it  over  again  in  a  different  way,  got 
discouraged,  tore  the  thing  up,  burned  the 
pieces  and  went  out  and  borrowed  a  quar- 
ter. The  artistic  sense  is  very  persistent, 
more  so  than  the  moral,  it  seems.  He  for- 
got to  return  the  quarter. 

Then  at  night,  if  he  could  get  enough  to 
drink,  he  would  talk  brilliantly  about  the 
great,  beautiful,  new  sort  of  writing  he  was 
going  to  begin  in  the  morning,  or,  equal- 
ly interestedly,  about  your  writing.  He 
would  be  as  sympathetic  and  responsive  as 
only  he  could  be,  getting  your  meaning  be- 
fore you  could  express  it,  and  then  express- 
ing it  better  than  you  could.  Later  in  the 
night,  he  sought  and  often  got  the  attention 
264 


The  Old  Reporter 

of  the  whole  room,  and  would  argue  and 
hold  forth  on  all  sorts  of  topics  of  the  town, 
as  he  loved  to  do,  displaying  an  inner 
knowledge  of  men  and  things  which,  if  it 
had  been  caught  by  a  phonograph,  could 
in  some  cases  have  been  reeled  off  to  stenog- 
raphers and  sold  for  enough  to  keep  Billy 
Woods  drunk  for  a  week. 

As  it  was,  newspaper  men  of  a  certain 
sort  used  to  get  columns  of  Sunday  space 
out  of  him,  about  all  sorts  of  things,  from 
Patagonian  grasses  to  the  social  ambitions 
of  the  wife  of  the  man  who  earned  a  living 
taking  care  of  the  bodies  for  the  dissecting 
room  of  the  College  of  Physicians  and  Sur- 
geons. Then  when  the  papers  came  out — 
Billy  always  read  all  of  them — he  would 
scratch  his  head  and  say,  "  That's  a  good 
story.  Say,  do  you  know,  I  was  going  to 
do  a  special  on  that  myself.  Too  late  now." 

If  some  one  had  taken  him  in  hand,  and 
assumed  guardian-  and  manager-ship  over 
him,  on  a  per  cent,  basis — for  Billy  would 
have  agreed — they  might  both  have  made  a 
good  thing  of  it.  There  was  nobody  to  do 
this.  Many  of  his  old  friends  had  quit  the 
265 


The  Old  Reporter 

life  entirely.  Two  of  them  were  becoming 
well-known  lawyers.  One  was  editor  of  a 
country  newspaper,  raising  chickens  as  a 
side  issue.  A  number  had  died,  and  some 
had  dropped  out  of  sight.  Others  had  gone 
into  different  lines  of  journalistic  work. 
Others  had  remained  newspaper  men  and 
more  or  less  healthy,  normal,  balanced  hu- 
man beings,  and  were  certainly  good 
friends  to  Billy  Woods.  But  these  had 
children  of  their  own  to  think  about,  or 
else  staffs  of  reporters  to  control. 

But  he  avoided  most  of  his  old  associates 
of  The  Day  now,  even  when  drunk,  for  he 
had  an  idea  that  they  would  be  ashamed  to 
be  seen  with  him ;  that  they  talked  and 
laughed  behind  his  back,  and  perhaps  some 
of  them  did.  He  cherished  no  resentment ; 
he  thought  it  was  quite  natural  and  right, 
and  that  he  deserved  it.  But  he  used  to 
linger  sometimes  in  an  unobserved  nook 
by  the  old  familiar  doorway,  watching  the 
younger,  fresh-faced  Day  reporters  as  they 
came  running  out  upon  the  street  on  as- 
signments. He  would  beam  a  benediction 
on  them. 

266 


The  Old  Reporter 

No  matter  where  he  woke  up,  The  Day 
was  the  first  thing  he  asked  for — before  a 
glass  of  ice-water  even.  He  knew — few 
better — how  to  criticise  each  story,  but  he 
would  laugh  aloud  at  the  humorous  ones, 
and  say,  "  By  Jove,  that's  a  pretty  story,"  of 
the  pathetic  ones,  and  slap  the  paper  with 
his  hand  and  get  nervous  and  excited. 
Then  he  would  stop  short  and  think.  Any- 
one who  knew  him  could  tell  what  he  was 
thinking. 

"  I  saw  old  Dr.  Woods's  son  down  on 
Broadway  to-day.  I  wonder  why  his  peo- 
ple don't  do  something  for  him.  There 
always  was  a  wild  streak  in  the  Woodses. 
He's  looking  pretty  seedy." 

Billy  did  not  mean  to  look  seedy.  He 
could  not  keep  his  neckties  from  fraying 
any  more  than  the  silk  facing  of  his  over- 
coat; and  the  latter  he  wore  unbuttoned, 
just  as  he  did  the  under  coat,  so  he  could 
put  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets.  That 
was  more  comfortable.  So  was  wearing 
his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head.  And, 
when  he  could  get  it,  there  was  a  cigar  in 

his  mouth. 

267 


The  Old  Reporter 

Billy  drifted  into  regular  work  again  in 
this  way: 

He  was  waiting  one  morning  in  the  of- 
fice of  an  afternoon  paper  to  see  a  copy- 
reader  he  knew  named  Brown,  probably  to 
borrow  some  money  from  him.  Brown 
was  late.  Billy  waited  at  his  seat.  Twice 
the  city  editor,  who  was  near-sighted,  had 
been  on  the  point  of  addressing  Woods  for 
the  man  that  belonged  there.  The  third 
time  he  snapped  out,  "  Say,  there,  can  you 
read  copy  ?  "  He  did  not  know  who  it  was. 

Billy  said  he  thought  he  could.  "  Read 
these  stories  and  keep  the  desk  to-day." 

Billy  kept  it  for  three  months,  and  it  is 
said  that  the  headlines  he  wrote  brought  up 
the  circulation  of  the  paper. 

He  kept  sober  all  that  time.  The  indoor 
work  was  less  of  a  strain  on  the  nerves,  and 
so  there  was  less  necessity  to  drink,  and 
also  he  was  not  obliged  to  walk  in  front  of 
places  whence  the  peculiar  smells  called  to 
him. 

"  Told  you  fellows,"  said  Woods,  "  that  I 
could  quit  it  if  I  made  up  my  mind  to  it. 
I  am  a  gentleman.  I'm  not  one  of  these 
268 


The  Old  Reporter 

Park  Row  bums.  My  people  ..."  He 
was  often  talking  about  his  people  now, 
and  how  distinguished  their  history  had 
been,  and  it  used  to  make  some  men  laugh, 
and  Billy  had  two  or  three  fights  on  that 
score. 

Then  one  morning  he  did  not  come  down 
to  the  office  (this  was  an  afternoon  paper), 
nor  the  next,  nor  until  a  week  later,  when 
he  suddenly  ran  into  the  room  and  made  a 
scene,  trying  to  throw  out  the  man  who  had 
succeeded  him  at  the  desk. 

The  next  day,  when  he  was  sober,  he 
came  in  and  apologized ;  he  apologized  pro- 
fusely to  the  whole  staff,  and  the  office  boys. 
He  was  almost  abject.  But  there  was  no 
place  for  him  there  any  longer. 

He  got  occasional  jobs  here  and  there — 
ofterf  on  some  poor  little  paper  of  small  im- 
portance, which  many  of  you  never  read, 
which  Billy,  in  the  old  days  of  his  glory, 
used  to  feel  sorry  for.  The  other  newspa- 
per men  along  the  Row  who  read  all  the 
papers  (and  seldom  anything  else)  did  not 
have  to  be  told  when  and  where  Billy 
Woods  was  back  at  work  again.  They 
269 


The  Old  Reporter 

could  see  it  in  the  columns  of  the  paper,  as 
plainly  as  though  it  were  a  photograph, 
and  then,  suddenly,  the  touch  that  they  rec- 
ognized as  his  had  dropped  out  again,  and 
they  would  say :  "  Too  bad  that  fellow 
can't  leave  whiskey  alone,"  for  they  knew 
that  Billy  had  lost  another  job. 

He  would  disappear  from  the  Row  en- 
tirely, and  no  one  seemed  to  know  certainly 
where  he  was  until  a  week  or  so  later  he 
would  turn  up  again,  looking  like  a  wreck, 
drop  into  an  office  and  beg  the  city  editor 
for  a  job  or  the  loan  of  a  dollar.  Some- 
times he  would  get  the  dollar,  sometimes 
the  job — perhaps  because  the  city  editor 
expected  to  get  the  latter  back  sooner. 

Meanwhile  he  lived  nobody  knew  how — 
how  do  you  live,  you  ghosts  of  Printing 
House  Square,  that  walk  up  and  down  the 
Row  and  stand  around  in  certain  hallways 
and  bar-rooms,  talking  of  the  story  of  the 
day  and  trouble  with  The  Timcs's  policy 
— and  the  Lord  knows  what — most  intelli- 
gently ;  how  do  you  manage  it,  I  wonder  ? 


270 


The  Old  Reporter 


VI 

Some  old  friends  of  Billy  Woods  had  de- 
cided to  send  him  off  to  an  alcoholism  cure. 
They  argued  that  it  would  not  hurt  him, 
and  might  prove  less  expensive  for  them- 
selves. Woods  was  full  of  the  idea,  and 
said  it  would  be  just  the  thing. 

Two  of  them  went  to  the  train  with  him, 
and  he  was  as  pleased  and  delighted  as  a 
boy  starting  off  for  a  month's  camping ;  he 
shook  their  hands  effusively,  even  whim- 
pered a  little  at  how  good  they  were  to  him, 
and  then  blinking  his  eyes  said,  solemnly, 
for  the  fifth  time,  that  he  sincerely  believed 
he  was  going  to  be  cured.  "  And  if  I'm 
not,  you  know,"  he  suddenly  called  back, 
as  the  train  started,  "  I'll  write  a  special 
about  the  thing,  showing  it  up  for  a  fake 
and  all  that." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  one  of  his  friends,  as 
the  rear  car  grew  smaller,  "  if  he  would 
take  the  assignment  to  cover  his  father's 
funeral?" 

"  If  he  wasn't  too  drunk,"  said  the  other, 
271 


The  Old  Reporter 

and  they  both  went  back  to  their  daily 
work  in  the  noisy  vortex  of  the  city. 

Billy,  in  a  quiet  place  in  the  good,  green 
country,  experienced  regular  meals,  regu- 
lar hours,  and  normal  nights'  sleep  for  the 
first  time  in  years.  And  for  the  first  time 
in  years  he  had  a  perspective  view  of  News- 
paper Row  and  himself.  They  made  him 
take  long  walks  through  the  quiet  country, 
and  he  saw,  as  plainly  as  his  friends,  the  in- 
evitable conclusion  of  his  story — unless  he 
took  himself  sharply  in  hand,  without  any 
more  delay. 

As  he  began  regaining  his  physical  ex- 
uberance he  began  telling  himself  what  he 
had  never  acknowledged  to  anyone  before 
— that  he  could  have  stopped  all  along  if  he 
only  wanted  to — the  trouble  had  been  to 
want  to.  He  used  to  tell  his  friends,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  "  What  makes  it  so  hard 
is  that,  no  matter  how  hard  I  fight,  there  is 
always  the  absolute  certainty  of  failure  in 
the  end,  sooner  or  later."  But  he  now  be- 
lieved that  he  could  have  kept  from  it  all 
the  while,  just  as  he  could  have  held  back 
his  spectacular  tears,  if  he  had  only  made 
272 


The  Old  Reporter 

up  his  mind.  Even  when  she  died  he  could 
have  held  off — but  everybody  said  they  did 
not  blame  him,  and  he  did  not  blame  him- 
self, and  there  was  so  much  satisfaction  in 
letting  go  once  more  and  getting  recklessly, 
gloriously  drunk. 

Before  he  left  the  Sanitarium  something 
else  happened  for  the  first  time  in  years. 
His  father  came  to  see  him;  came  all  the 
way  from  Virginia  to  pray  with  him,  as  he 
told  Billy,  who  almost  blushed,  and  after 
the  old  gentleman  had  left,  promising  to  re- 
turn the  next  day,  the  reporter  laughed, 
kindly.  He  laughed  again  the  second  day, 
and  the  third.  The  fourth  time  he  cried. 
They  weren't  fake  tears  this  time.  They 
lasted  so  long.  .  .  . 

But  Billy  declined  with  very  sincere 
thanks  to  go  home  and  do  the  prodigal-son 
act.  Once  a  newspaper  man,  always  a 
newspaper  man.  But  he  was  going  to  get 
some  quiet  indoor  work,  writing  para- 
graphs on  some  mild  afternoon  paper,  or 
something  of  that  sort. 

Woods  came  out,  pronounced  cured,  and 
he  hurried  back  to  Park  Row  and  showed 
273 


The  Old  Reporter 

himself  to  the  first  one  of  his  friends  he 
could  find.  He  was  very  quiet  and  serious 
now,  and  had  a  good,  clean  look  about  the 
eyes.  "  I  believe  I  am  a  new  man,"  he 
said,  gravely.  "  Now  I  want  to  get  to 
work." 

The  friend  looked  thoughtful,  for,  being 
a  newspaper  man,  he  was  skeptical  of  many 
things,  including  gold  cures,  but  he  knew 
it  was  useless  to  advise,  so  he  tried  to  help 
Woods  get  something  to  do. 

But  it  was  no  longer  easy  to  get  even 
Billy  Woods  a  job,  notwithstanding  his 
clean-shaven,  grave  face,  backed  up  by  a 
new  suit  of  dark  clothes  and  white  linen. 
It  had  become  the  general  belief  along 
the  Row  that  he  could  not  be  depended 
upon  to  keep  sober  till  the  paper  went  to 
press. 

First  they  tried  the  big  papers,  but  most 
of  the  city  editors  refused  to  even  see 
Woods ;  one  or  two  because  they  had  been 
reporters  with  him  in  the  old  days,  and  it 
was  easier  to  refuse  Billy  Woods  if  they  did 
not  see  him,  even  though  they  were  hard- 
ened city  editors ;  but  most  of  them  because 
274 


The  Old  Reporter 

they  were  very  busy  men  and  had  no  time 
to  waste  on  drunkards. 

"  There's  no  sense  in  being  discouraged," 
said  Billy  Woods,  smiling ;  "  I'll  try  again 
to-morrow.  What  are  my  legs  for?  Say, 
wasn't  that  a  well-written  story  The  Day 
had  this  morning  about  the  Board  of  Edu- 
cation!" Then  he  talked  fascinatingly  for 
half  an  hour  about  politics  in  the  Board  of 
Education. 

The  next  day  he  started  with  the  less  de- 
sirable papers  and  began  to  work  down  the 
list. 

"  But  I've  quit  drinking  entirely,"  he  ex- 
claimed, straightening  his  glasses  and  try- 
ing to  look  intent,  like  the  old  Billy  Woods. 
"  How  about  the  night  exchange  desk  ? 
You  know  what  I  can  do." 

The  city  editors  smiled  indulgently.  They 
did  not  seem  to  understand  that  he  had  quit 
drinking  entirely. 

"Very  well,"  said  Woods,  cheerily, 
"  Good-by,"  smiled,  bowed  politely,  and 
marched  off  to  try  to  make  some  other  of- 
fice think  it  was  worth  while  giving  him 
a  trial. 

275 


The  Old  Reporter 

Then  as  Woods's  cane  thumped  on  out 
of  the  room,  those  who  were  waiting  for  as- 
signments gathered  in  a  group  on  tables 
and  chairs,  and  the  old  reporters  told  stories 
of  Woods's  past  greatness,  which  made  the 
new  reporters'  eyes  grow  big,  and  instances 
of  his  absent-mindedness  and  drunken 
freaks,  at  which  they  all  laughed  together. 
.  .  .  In  a  week  or  two  it  was,  "  Any- 
thing I  can  get.  You  know  my  abilities. 
I've  hocked  everything  I  own  except  the 
clothes  I  have  on.  Please  give  me  just  one 
chance.  No,  I  don't  care  to  borrow  money, 
thank  you.  I  can't  say  when  I  could  ever 
pay  you  back." 

This  last  was  surprising,  but  you  see  he 
remembered  that  the  old  Billy  Woods  had 
had  a  great  deal  of  self-respect.  He  was  re- 
calling all  he  could  of  the  old  Billy  Woods. 

"  Well,' Billy,  still  looking  for  that  job?" 
said  grinning  young  reporters,  familiarly, 
as  they  passed  by.  A  year  or  two  ago  they 
would  have  called  him  Mr.  Woods,  if  they 
had  presumed  to  address  him  at  all,  for  the 
star  reporter  of  The  Day  was  a  very  exclu- 
sive young  person. 

276 


The  Old  Reporter 

Billy  Woocls's  great  chance  came  in  this 
way:  A  big  piece  of  news  had  come  into 
existence,  and  the  morning  papers  each  had 
at  least  two  columns  about  it.  But  none 
of  them  had  been  able  to  cover  a  most  im- 
portant point  in  it.  So  there  was  a  good 
"  second  day  "  story  for  the  afternoon  pa- 
pers, just  the  sort  of  story  Billy  Woods,  the 
old  Billy  Woods,  could  have  run  down. 
Now  at  rare  intervals  the  old  Billy  Woods 
cropped  out.  It  was  on  that  chance  that 
the  city  editor  of  a  certain  afternoon  paper 
was  saying :  "  Now,  Woods,  you  are  a 
drunkard.  I  want  you  to  understand  me ; 
you  are  not  a  member  of  the  staff  unless 
you  run  down  this  story.  If  you  get  the 
story  you  get  the  job.  If  you  can't  find 
the  story  you'll  have  to  look  for  another 
job.  That's  plain."  Billy  knew  he  was 
considered  a  drunkard,  so  he  thanked  the 
kind  editor  for  giving  him  a  chance. 

"  Have  you  any  change  ?"  asked  the  city 
editor.  "  Well,  here's  an  order  on  the  cash- 
ier. There,  that'll  pay  car-fare  and  a  tele- 
phone, if  you  have  to  telephone.  Now  skip 
out  and  make  your  best  time.  Oh,  say, 
277 


The  Old  Reporter 

Woods,  don't  forget  this    is  an  afternoon 
paper." 

Billy  did  not  like  to  be  joked  about  his 
absent-mindedness,  but  he  was  too  happy 
with  the  thought  of  going  out  on  a  story 
once  more  to  feel  any  resentment.  His 
eyes  were  glistening  as  he  grabbed  some 
copy-paper  and  dashed  out  of  the  room  with 
something  of  his  old  vigorous  stride,  smil- 
ing to  himself  and  humming  a  little  tuneless 
tune  of  pleasure. 

"  I'll  bet  he  gets  drunk  on  that  order  you 
gave  him,  Mr.  Hutchings,"  said  a  copy- 
reader,  looking  up. 

"  I  have  two  other  men  out  on  the  story, 
so  it  won't  matter,"  said  the  city  editor. 

But  Billy  Woods  had  no  thought  of  get- 
ting drinks  with  the  money  or  even  some- 
thing to  eat,  which  he  would  have  relished 
much  more  just  now.  First  he  went  to  his 
old  favorite  barber-shop  and  got  shaved. 
He  remembered  that  the  old  Billy  Woods 
was  a  well-dressed  young  man ;  besides  it 
might  be  necessary  to  look  like  a  gentle- 
man, in  order  to  work  the  story  in  the  way 
he  had  instantly  planned. 
278 


The  Old  Reporter 

It  was  the  sort  of  story  Billy  loved.  A 
large  mining  and  land  company,  well 
known  and  believed  in  by  nearly  everybody, 
had  suddenly  and  quite  unexpectedly  come 
to  grief.  So  much  of  the  story,  and  very 
little  else,  by  way  of  news,  had  been  pub- 
lished that  morning  all  over  the  globe.  Why 
the  company  had  met  with  disaster  had  not 
been  published,  because  that  could  not  be 
found  out,  as  yet,  not  even  by  the  cleverest 
reporters  in  the  most  enterprising  newspa- 
per centre  of  both  hemispheres. 

It  was,  indeed,  just  the  sort  of  story  the 
old  Billy  Woods  could  have  handled.  And 
as  he  walked  energetically  across  City  Hall 
Park,  past  the  indigent  and  intoxicated  on 
the  benches,  he  was  resolving  again  with  all 
that  was  in  him  to  be  the  old  Billy  Woods. 
As  he  ran  up  the  L  steps  and  boarded  a 
train  he  swore  never  to  drink  again  as  long 
as  he  lived.  This  was  where  he  usually 
swore  never  to  drink  again. 

Nearly  all  the  newspaper  world — that  is, 

men  who  represented  the  newspapers  of 

the  whole  world — were  buzzing  around  the 

office  of  the  stranded  firm.     It  was  down  in 

279 


The  Old  Reporter 

Wall  Street.  That  was  the  reason  Billy 
Woods  went  uptown.  He  went  to  the 
home  of  the  president  of  the  company  and 
asked,  mysteriously,  to  see  him  alone.  He 
was  informed  that  he  was  out.  Billy  knew 
that ;  that  was  the  reason  he  asked  for  him. 
Of  course  other  reporters  had  come  to  the 
house  ;  they  had  been  there  every  few  hours 
of  the  last  twenty-four,  including  midnight 
and  two  o'clock ;  they  had  not  asked  to  see 
the  master  of  the  house  alone,  and  they  had 
been  anything  but  mysterious ;  they  endeav- 
ored to  be  as  pleasant  and  conciliatory  as 
possible.  But  of  course  they  had  not  suc- 
ceeded in  seeing  the  inside  of  the  vestibule, 
much  less  a  member  of  the  family. 

"  Are  you  quite  certain  he's  out  ?"  ex- 
claimed Billy  Woods  excitedly  to  the 
servant.  "  Did  he  not  leave  a  message  for 
me  ?  What !  Why,  this  is  most  extraordi- 
nary, I'm  sure;  most  extraordinary!  Did 
he  not  tell  you  I  was  coming  ?  "  His  vow- 
els had  become  broad  and  the  intonation 
in  his  questions  was  not  American. 

The  servant  explained  that  he  had  been 
instructed  to  admit  no  one.  But  he  said 
280 


The  Old  Reporter 

so  in  an  apologetic  tone ;  and  so  Billy  went 
on :  "  My  good  man,  you're  quite  right. 
Pray  do  not  admit  anyone — not  even  me, 
but  did  he  not  tell  you  I  was  expected  ?  " 

The  servant  said  he  would  inquire. 
"  What  name,  sir  ?" 

"  My  name?  Don't  you  know  me?  If 
not  it  would  hardly  do  to  tell  you  my  name. 
If  he's  in  tell  him  H.  P.  is  here  from  the 
West — or  tell  his  daughter." 

"  Very  good,  sir ;  come  into  the  reception- 
room,  please." 

When  Woods  put  on  his  English  ac- 
cent and  arrogant  manner,  it  always  went 
straight  to  English  servants'  hearts.  He 
was  the  first  reporter  to  get  farther  than  the 
doorstep. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  young  girl  appeared 
at  the  portieres.  She  had  a  great  deal  of 
brown  hair  and  her  hands  were  pretty. 
Billy  did  not  notice  the  hands  until  after- 
ward, but  he  had  already  taken  in  a  great 
many  more  things  than  most  persons  would 
in  fifteen  minutes.  Among  them,  that  this 
young  woman  was  romantic  and  emotional, 
and  that  she  had  been  holding  in  tears  and 
281 


The  Old  Reporter 

excitement — and,  probably,  facts — until  her 
young  head  was  almost  reeling. 

Billy  automatically  formed  his  plan  be- 
fore she  had  crossed  the  room ;  then  he 
came  forward  to  meet  her,  but  not  too  sud- 
denly. "Isn't  your  father  here?"  He 
asked  this  in  a  low  tone  of  suppressed  ex- 
citement. 

"  He's  down  town.  Are  you  a  report- 
er  " 

"  But  he  left  a  letter  for  me,  did  he  not  ? 
Surely,  surely  he  told  you  to  expect  me.  I 
sent  a  telegram  when  I  started  and  another 
on  my  way  yesterday,  at  Chicago,  saying 
I  would  call  at  the  house,  you  know." 

"  Papa  got  a  number  of  telegrams  from 
the  West,  saying  various  men  would  be  on 
to-day "  (as  Woods  had  easily  guessed), 
"  but  I  suppose  he  thought  they  would  go 
directly  to  the  office.  May  I  ask  your 
name?" 

"  But  I  told  him  distinctly — oh,  Palmer, 
Palmer's  my  name.  You've  heard  of  me,  I 
dare  say,"  Billy  said,  in  a  matter-of-fact  way, 
and  went  on,  "  I  told  him  I  would  call  here, 
if  he  was  not  at  the  office — oh,  this  is  terri- 
282 


The  Old  Reporter 

ble!  If  you  knew  what  it  involves  you 
would — ah — pardon  the  intrusion  and — and 
the  way  I  am  behaving,  I'm  sure.  You 
have  heard  of  me,  have  you  not  ?  Mr.  Har- 
old Palmer  ?"  Billy  smiled  modestly  at  her, 
while  he  fumbled,  apparently,  for  a  card, 
which  apparently  he  forgot. 

"  Very  likely  I  have,"  said  the  girl,  more 
graciously  now,  "  but  I  don't  recall " 

"  One  of  the  English  members  ?"  asked 
Woods.  "  You've  heard  your  father  speak 
of  them?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course ;  he  always  spoke  of 
them  as " 

"  The  English  crowd,"  laughed  Billy, 
who  had  read  the  morning  papers  carefully, 
and  also  knew  something  of  the  history  and 
working  of  this  corporation,  as  he  did  of 
most  big  firms  down  town. 

The  girl  was  now  smiling  at  him  agree- 
ably. "  I  thought  you  were  an  Englishman 
when  you  first  spoke,"  she  said. 

Billy  now  saw  by  the  large,  young  eyes 
that  there  was  a  new  and  a  personal  interest 
in  him,  and  he  surmised  that  she  was  recall- 
ing what  her  father  had  doubtless  often 
283 


The  Old  Reporter 

told  her  about  the  group  of  well-born  young 
Englishmen  out  there  in  the  West,  one  or 
two  of  whom  had  left  titles  and  stories  in 
England,  making  them  interesting  to  young 
girls.  So  now  he  began  to  talk.  He 
talked  well.  He  knew  she  would  talk  later 
on  when  he  was  ready  for  it. 

First  his  talk  was  calm ;  it  was  merely  to 
establish  his  fictitious  identity  in  her  mind, 
and  win  her  confidence.  This  was  easy  for 
Woods,  who  was  now  warming  up  to  his 
part  like  an  actor  when  he  feels  he  has  the 
attention  and  good-will  of  the  house.  Then 
he  began  to  work  upon  her  sympathies. 
Soon  he  had  her  under-lip  trembling  at  the 
picture  of  ruin  which  the  failure  of  the  firm 
was  about  to  bring  upon  him,  the  sole  sup- 
port of  that  old  mother  he  had  described  to 
her — unless  he  found  out  whether  or  not 
her  father  ..."  But,  of  course,"  he 
interrupted  himself,  dropping  his  dark  eyes, 
"  I  would  not  for  the  world  have  you  tell 
even  me  about  it  unless  you  yourself  feel 
that  under  the  circumstances,  the  peculiar 
circumstances,  I  have  a  full  right  to  know. 
I  trust  I  am  not  asking  too  much?  If  I 
284 


The  Old  Reporter 

am  you  must  frankly  tell  me  so,  but  oh, 
Heavens,  if  I  do  not  find  out  before  the 
Stock  Exchange  closes — no!  within  half 
an  hour "  He  bit  his  lip. 

Billy  now  had  her  talking,  talking  frankly 
and  freely,  with  a  nice  little  sympathetic 
look  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and 
wonder  in  her  eyes,  and  some  zest,  for  he 
seemed  such  a  strange,  romantic,  fascinating 
foreigner,  and  the  story  he  told  was  so 
pathetic,  and  he  had  such  a  sad,  strong,  dis- 
tinguished face  and  bearing.  She  believed 
that  he  had  had  "  a  great  sorrow  "  in  his 
life,  and  all  sorts  of  strange  experiences,  and 
that  she  was  in  the  midst  of  a  story. 

"  And  what  did  your  father  say  he  would 
do  in  that  case?"  the  interesting  man  was 
asking,  beaming  kindly  at  her,  and  adding : 
"  You  see,  I  don't  exactly  understand.  I'm 
all  knocked  up — all  these  sudden  worries — 
but  never  mind  that,"  and  he  stopped  him- 
self with  a  grim  smile,  quite  as  they  do  in 
novels. 

She  repeated  it  all  clearly,  for  she  was  an 
only  daughter,  and  her  father  was  a  wid- 
ower, and  that  was  the  reason  Billy  had 
285 


The  Old  Reporter 

guessed  the  girl  would  know.  When  in 
trouble,  Woods  generally  found,  a  man  has 
to  talk  to  some  woman,  and  Billy  had  reck- 
oned on  the  right  one. 

"  Then  after  your  father  learned  that  the 
Western  bank  wanted  the  securities  after 
all?" 

"  Well,  then,  Mr.  Palmer,  you  know  what 
the  directors  decided  to  do.  Indeed,  you 
ought  to  know." 

"  Indeed,  I  ought,"  said  the  stranger, 
with  a  very  bitter  laugh.  "  And  your 
father?" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Palmer — my  father — it  was 
too  late  then ;  it  was  simply  a  necessity,  un- 
der the  circumstances.  Don't  you  see  it 
was?  How  did  papa  know  that  the  direc- 
tors were  not  going  to  concur  with  him — 
they  always  had  before — how  was  he  to 
guess — oh,  Mr.  Palmer,  isn't  it  awful !  This 
whole  thing — papa's  nearly  worried  to 
death — but  he  thinks  he  will  be  able  to  tide 
it  over  by  to-night — he's  positive  if  he  can 
only  continue  to  keep  the  papers  off  the 
right  scent,  you  know.  Of  course  you 
won't  talk  to  any  reporters,  will  you,  Mr. 
Palmer?" 

286 


The  Old  Reporter 

"  No,"  said  Woods,  rising  from  his  seat, 
"  I  won't  tell  any  of  the  reporters." 

"  They  would  like  to  know  what  you 
know,"  said  the  girl,  earnestly,  shaking  her 
head. 

"  Yes,"  said  Billy. 

"  You  know  it  would  ruin  papa  if  the  pa- 
pers got  hold  of  it — not  only  ruin  him, 
but — well,  you  see  how  it  would  look  to  the 
public?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Billy,  who  knew  very  well. 

"  Some  of  them  are  very  clever,  papa 
says.  Are  you  sure  you  would  understand 
how  to  deal  with  reporters  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Billy,  "  I  would  understand. 
You're  quite  right,"  he  added,  picking  up 
his  hat ;  "  don't  let  them  inside  the  door ; 
don't  let  anyone  in — slam  the  door  in  their 
faces." 

The  girl  even  followed  him  to  the  door. 
She  was  holding  out  her  hand  now.  It  was 
a  beautiful  hand.  "  I  have  talked  very 
freely  to  you,"  she  said,  her  eyes  looking 
frankly  into  his ;  "  you  are  a  comparative 
stranger  to  me,  but  I  feel  that  I  can  trust 
you." 

287 


The  Old  Reporter 

Woods  looked  at  her  a  moment.  "  I'm 
glad  you  have,"  he  said,  and  then  he  bowed 
low  and  quite  gracefully,  having  been 
taught  how  many  years  ago  by  a  mother 
who  had  a  soft  voice,  and  went  down  the 
steps,  looking  back  once  more  at  the  girl 
with  the  brave,  trustful  look  in  her  eyes. 
There  was  another  once  to  whom  he  had 
made  a  promise  long  ago.  She,  too,  had 
beautiful  hands.  He  had  written  verses 
about  them.  He  was  starting  off  down  the 
street  now  with  facts  which,  if  published, 
would  ruin  another  man  and  make  Billy 
Woods — just  then  another  reporter  came 
bustling  up  the  steps.  He  had  been  wait- 
ing nearby,  and  had  seen  the  door  open 
and  Woods  come  out. 

The  girl  met  him  at  the  top  of  the  stairs 
and  shook  her  head  decisively. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  insisted  the  new- 
comer, "  but  what  one  paper  publishes  you 
may  as  well  let  all  publish,"  pointing  down 
the  street  at  Billy's  disappearing  back; 
"  you  talked  a  long  time  to  that  other  re- 
porter— "  The  door  slammed  in  his  face, 
and  Billy,  who  had  watched,  went  hurrying 
288 


The  Old  Reporter 

down  the  street,  shaking  all  over  his  body 
so  that  people  on  the  street  stared  at  him 
and  smiled. 

All  day  the  girl  kept  saying  to  herself: 
"  I  believe  in  him  anyway ;  even  if  he  is  a 
reporter,  I  believe  in  the  look  in  his  face." 

She  sent  for  the  first  editions  of  the  after- 
noon papers.  They  all  contained  frequent 
mention  of  her  father's  name  and  a  column 
or  two  about  the  affair,  but  little  that  had 
not  been  printed  in  the  morning  papers, 
and  nothing  of  what  she  had  told  the  dark 
stranger.  She  looked  through  the  succes- 
sive editions  of  all  the  papers  and  could  not 
find  what  she  did  not  want  to  find.  The 
next  morning  she  woke  up  early,  tiptoed 
down-stairs,  looked  through  all  the  papers. 
Then  she  crept  up  to  bed  again,  saying,  "  I 
told  you  so ;  I  just  knew  that  reporter  was  a 
gentleman,"  mentally  begged  his  pardon  for 
having  felt  even  uneasy  about  it,  and  got  a 
little  much-needed  sleep  before  breakfast. 

But  that  wasn't  the  way  of  it  exactly. 

Woods  had  not  telephoned  to  the  office 
because  there  was  plenty  of  time  for  a  rapid 
writer,  like  himself,  to  catch  the  first  edi- 
289 


The  Old  Reporter 

tion.  Besides,  this  was  too  good  a  story 
to  risk  over  the  telephone.  There  was  no 
one  in  the  office,  he  thought,  who  could 
handle  that  story  in  the  masterful  way  he 
could.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  pull  himself 
together  now,  for  this  last  final  spurt,  and 
then  he'd  be  the  winner,  and  all  the  Row 
would  be  talking  about  him  once  more,  and 
perhaps  The  Day  .  .  .  But  the  trem- 
bling old  reporter  couldn't  pull  himself  to- 
gether, somehow.  He  had  used  up  all  he 
had  in  him,  as  it  was.  He  called  upon  his 
will.  But  there  wasn't  very  much  of  that 
any  longer. 

"  I  have  demonstrated  it  for  three  solid 
months,"  he  whispered  to  himself,  pushing 
open  a  bamboo  door,  "  and  now  is  a  time 
when  I  need  it,  if  there  ever  was.  It's  not 
the  use  but  the  abuse — "  The  little  yield- 
ing door  shut  silently  behind  him. 

"  What !  You  again  ?  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  a  long  time,"  said  the  brisk  young 
hospital  surgeon  that  night  as  he  jumped 
off  his  seat  in  the  rear  of  the  ambulance. 
"Tumble  in— that's  all  right— you'll  have 
290 


time  enough  to  tell  me  all  about  it  before 
you  get  out  of  the  hospital.  Shut  up  now." 
Then  to  the  big  policeman :  "  They  always 
have  it  worse  when  they  haven't  had  proper 
nourishment  for  as  long  as  this  fellow.  Sit 
on  his  legs,  will  you,  please?" 

The  great  corporation  was  on  its  feet 
once  more  and  making  money,  and  the 
great  story  was  more  or  less  of  a  blank  to 
the  old  reporter  by  the  time  he  was  dis- 
charged from  Bellevue,  and  came  stumbling 
down  toward  Park  Row  again. 

"  Hello,  there's  Billy  Woods.  Every  pa- 
per wanted  that  fellow  once ;  none  of  'em  will 
have  him  now — look  out,  let's  hurry  by  or 
he'll  strike  us  for  the  price  of  a  drink.  Too 
bad  he  couldn't  leave  whiskey  alone." 


291 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


V' 


A     000  104  464     3 


